Horatio came awake slowly, uncertain of where he was but too comfortable to be unduly fussed over the mystery. It was only when his bleary eyes fixed on the small portrait among the gallery of landscapes opposite the bed that he remembered suddenly that he was in Kennedy's bedroom, in London, in the house of an earl. Archie! He started to bolt out of bed, but the squeak of the startled maid brought him up.
"Goodness, your pardon sir!" She was his age or a little younger, Horatio reckoned, and looked well in her neat uniform, with an upright posture and a friendly round face-flushed now with embarrassment. "I didn't realize you were stirring, I hope I didn't wake you sir." Her eyes were carefully cast down at her feet, but Horatio had the impression, nonetheless, that she had examined him thoroughly. Whether she found him as clownish as he did himself, her face didn't betray.
After a pause, she glanced up cautiously. "Lady Anne thought you might prefer breakfast on a tray this morning, sir. Would you like me to have the kitchen prepare that now?"
Horatio realized a few seconds too late that he should have made some sort of response to her apology, not stood there at the edge of the bed in his night gown, staring at the poor girl. He must say something now, in fact. "I… er… ah… that would be…. Fine. Thank you, miss?" His mind spun around deciding if he was being offered a tray because of some gaffe the night before. Unable to settle on any glaring crimes, he tried to believe it was simple thoughtfulness after their long journey yesterday.
"Betsy sir." She bobbed a curtsey, still not actually looking at him. "I'll just go fetch some warm water and then tell Cook." Gathering up her basket of brushes and fuel, she backed out of the room, leaving Horatio alone once more. He moved to the adjoining door, and listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, he cautiously opened it up, and peeked into the other room.
Archie was still sleeping before the fire, which had almost burned out. Betsy had not yet been into this room, then. A few stubs of candles were still burning, and Horatio crept about to extinguish them, then came back to kneel next to Kennedy. In the dim light stealing through the curtains, the boy looked better, not so pale, with the red flecks on cheeks and chest beginning to fade.
Horatio warred between the desire to let his friend sleep it out, and saving the gossip of being found sleeping other than in bed. Propriety won this battle, and he reached out, his other hand held up to protect his own face from any violent reaction, and shook gently. "Mr. Kennedy, the maid will be in shortly.
Kennedy must still be unwell, for the boy did not react immediately, beyond opening eyes dark and muzzled, blinking and then closing again. Horatio tried again, gripping a shoulder, and tugging gently. "Mr. Kennedy, you will want to be in your bed, or the servants will talk." A frown then, or perhaps a wince, and then that blue gaze was fixed more directly on him, Archie sat up, Horatio helping until he realized Kennedy was staring down at his hand wrapped round the other's arm.
"Thank you, Mr. Hornblower, I have it."
Horatio let go at once, too relieved at hearing the familiar edge of irritation to be hurt by it. "Of course, Mr. Kennedy." Gratitude was obviously not to be expected from wounded pride, so Horatio just stood up again, awkward, ready to help return the bedclothes until he realized Archie was glaring at him in resentment of his continued presence. "I'll… just be there, if you need anything." He gestured at the open doorway, then tripped over a discarded map case, on his way back through. He closed it on his own embarrassment.
Betsy came in a minute later, with a knock, but no pause to acknowledge his welcome. Carrying a lightly steaming pitcher in her hand, she crossed to set this on the washstand, not even giving Horatio a sideways glance. "You didn't set your boots out last night, sir, shall I take them down now?"
His boots? Horatio wasn't sure what she meant to do with them, but didn't want to look more foolish, and assented. "Thank you, Betsy." The few servants his father had employed had been less formal. He wasn't sure how to speak to the girl.
Betsy did not seem to notice his discomfort, and bobbed another curtsey. "I'll be back with your tray presently, sir." Gathering up his footwear-new when he boarded the Justinian, but already scuffed and scratched from the rigors of sea life-the maid swept out of the room with an air of efficiency, leaving Horatio to puzzle out what to do next.
He didn't feel he could climb back into bed, and eat there, like some form of decadent. Instead he washed with French soap and hot water, luxury enough, then retrieved his uniform, neatly laid on a chair last night, and quickly dressed for the day. He shaved as much as he needed, and began the task of confining his hair with a ribbon, after losing an argument with himself over whether to knock on the intermediary door to request the service.
It was the kind of soft, normal, courtesy that they had often shared, in those early weeks, before Simpson, Clayton, and the fight in the hold. Whatever else his inverted heart longed for, Horatio ached most for that tender friendship. The safety of warm strong hands setting him to rights in the berths or guiding him through a complicated knot or welcoming him under the table with a silent joke.
It was ridiculous. After all they'd survived because of their care for one another, there was now no need to skulk and hide their friendship. How should there yet be so much of death and illness, lust and secrets between them, that Horatio could not even rap the door and ask the blasted boy to tie his hair for him? He was taking strides in that direction, determined not to let the awkwardness grow further, when both doors opened together. Betsy, surprised to see Horatio dressed before her, stopped tray in hand. Kennedy was wrapped in the coverlet, and similarly startled at having Hornblower almost nose to nose.
"Master Archie, sir!" Betsy smiled and bobbed, threatening Horatio's meal. "I'll just put this down and raddle your fire then? Or shall I go down for your breakfast first?" Recovering, she detoured around Horatio to set the crowded tray down on a small table near the window. She drew back the curtains to let in the morning light as she waited for instruction.
"I think you've brought enough for two already, Betsy. Midshipman Hornblower has not so robust an appetite." Archie sat himself at Horatio's table, looking over the contents proprietorially. "I've made a mess of things, bit of a drunk last night," Kennedy let the lie out without hesitation or embarrassment. "Leave everything save whatever clothes you find. Take those off to be burned and have a footman help you with the hammock mattress. Then worry about the fire. Ta, Betsy."
The maid took these orders with a saucy little eyeroll, very different from her humble correctness with him. "Yes, Master Archie." but trundled off to the adjoining room, closing the door behind her. Unsure what else to do, Horatio took the second chair, examining his friend critically in the clear morning light. Shadows around the eyes gave the other mid a faintly hollow air, but Archie's expression showed nothing but avarice at the bounty before them.
A selection of tiny jam pots awaited of tower of thick-cut toast. There were scones as well, studded with currants, and a dish of stewed prunes and apples. A single coddled egg on a porcelain stand could be fought over later. Their hands had already met over the half rasher of bacon. Horatio could not but give way to the other mid, though his mild irritation forced him to at least protest. "It is my breakfast you know, Mr. Kennedy," even as Archie snagged a handful of perfectly cooked slices.
"I'm helping, Mr. Hornblower," the boy replied, stuffing two pieces in and mumbling over them, but returning the third back to Horatio. "I would not want you to be overset by Cook's barrage. Though you will want to eat hardily, you'll need your strength." This warning, and the temptation of the bacon, distracted Horatio long enough for the other mid to snag the lone cup. Sighing over the tall carafe of coffee, Kennedy poured a measure with an air of resignation, and quaffed it with a wince.
"You could have asked the maid to bring you tea, Kennedy," he snapped. Meat was one thing, but to stand between Horatio and his morning coffee was beyond the pale. "And what are we embarked on today?" He seized the sole egg in retribution, and began on it.
Archie took the time to slather a heap of jelly onto a piece of toast before replying. "I'm obliged to answer to the Captain for my innumerable flaws, and also to be measured for new uniforms." By expression, the latter prospect was unfathomably more daunting. "You shall squire Anne about for a bit of shopping. She has instruction to visit the booksellers and at least one coffee house, but it might otherwise be a bit deadly. Fortitude, Mr. Hornblower!" To Horatio's ear the jollity was a bit forced, but he was too unhappy at the idea himself toprobe further into Archie's distress.
"I should be happy to accompany your sister, of course, Mr. Kennedy." Horatio hoped the quailing was not visible on his face, and attempted to further hide his dismay by fussing over the applying the correct proportion of lemon curd to blackberry on his scone. He had never attended a woman for anything more extended than a trip from dance floor the refreshments table, and that seldom, being unable to appreciate the music and clumsy on his feet besides. The thought floated across his mind that he had now an explanation for why he had never appreciated a lady enough to make the effort anyway.
"Excellent, Hornblower. I shall see about a trip to the theater tonight, to make up for it." This treat was clearly cheering, and Kennedy dug into more of Horatio's bacon as he expounded on the different acting companies and charms of their houses, beauty of their actresses, and talent of their playwrights, while requiring little more from Horatio than nods and grunts of agreement between mouthfuls of coddled egg. The voluble enthusiasm forced Horatio to forgive the boy even for the coffee, though as Kennedy finally rose, he did steal his cup back and poured himself what proved to be a simply excellent beverage. After so many long weeks of over-steeped and scalded dregs from inferior beans-when it was even true coffee at all, not blasted chicory-Horatio lost time in inhaling the delectable scent and savoring the first few sips.
When he blinked up again, the fog from his senses already beginning to lift, he realized that Kennedy had rummaged the walnut armoire in the corner and plucked out fresh garments. Elegant wool breeches in a deep gray were already pulled up under the nightgown. Though they had yet to discuss how Archie came to be in the gown, and Horatio thought Kennedy must not even remember the night before, nevertheless the other mid seemed to have decided that the same degree of modesty was no longer needed. Kennedy shucked off the shift, only turning away from Horatio to pick up the next article.
Though he did not intend to, Horatio stared at that straight back. It was marked, as he'd felt, with a scattering of narrow raised red welts that would not have stood out so, except the paleness of Kennedy's skin. These crossed each other, meeting with a few more scars, thin and straighter, where back tapered to hips and disappeared into waistband. Horatio only had a few moments to take it in, as the boy slipped on two layers of fine shirts, then waistcoat. A jacket in deep evergreen waited, as buttoned, stuffed, and fastened, Kennedy moved to the mirror to work on tying a crisp white stock into a puzzle of folds.
Though no aficionado of fashion, Horatio did think that Kennedy's clothes were well made, in rich fabrics. Coming close to watch behind Archie's shoulder, he had a temptation to touch the waistcoat, which he thought was slubbed silk, in a merry blue-green color that gave a lovely ocean tint to Kennedy's eyes. However, the fit was slightly off, short at the cuffs and loose at the waist as if made when the boy had carried a stone more flesh on an inch less height. Clothes from before Justinian then, but after India, by the uncertain timeline Horatio had assembled from odd half-sentences and asides of two months' conversations.
There were few words now, even as Horatio joined the other mid at the mirror on the pretense of refining his own appearance. Out of uniform, Kennedy seemed older. A wealthy-even foppish-stranger, frittering over neck gear, then the perfect set of jacket, and tuck of breeches. This bore no relation to the frequently heedless way Kennedy treated the standards of naval dress. A handsome stranger, as Horatio's gut informed him with a churning warmth, without the bicorn that never sat well and bulky peacoat obscuring face and form. Yes, the Honorable Alexander Kennedy was quite striking, from gold touched waves and high cheekbones to rounded arse and strong thighs, ending in turned calves set off by bright white stockings and shoes with gold buckles, not pinchbeck. Horatio knew himself a dark country scarecrow in comparison, grateful for at least the distinction of his uniform.
Just when he meant to slip away again, Horatio felt a tug pinning him in place, and then the catch of a brush in his hair. Archie took time about it, first easing the tangles out, then running long strokes from crown to tip, long past what was needed to tame his locks. Even with the ribbon restored, Kennedy wasn't done with him. Horatio watched as with a closed look of concentration, the older boy carefully smoothed locks over scarred fingers, coaxing the froth into trailing ringlets. Archie examined the effect, reaching up to drop a curl from his forelock, and wrestling Horatio's coat into a minute adjustment; the familiarity with Horatio's person was unchanged at least.
"There we are, Midshipman Hornblower, you'll not disgrace my sister now. Let's go below."
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