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Winter had settled around Woolcombe and covered the countryside in a blanket of snow. Sophie looked at Jack in his accustomed chair, where he was concentrating on the book in his hands. He was not a friend of romance novels, so she took it kindly that he was nevertheless reading Evelina to her again, maybe on the grounds that Burney was the sister of an admiral. She concentrated on her knitting, soon corrected the stitches gone wrong and glanced out of the window at the snowflakes dancing in the winter wind. She made an effort to listen to the story and not gather wool, but she liked losing herself in her husband’s voice, which had deepened with age and made her feel ever more secure.
ALL is over, my dearest Sir; and the fate of your Evelina is decided! This morning, with fearful joy and trembling gratitude, she united herself for ever with the object of her dearest, her eternal affection. I have time for no more; the chaise now waits which is to conduct me to dear Berry Hill, and to the arms of the best of men. Jack closed the book with a snap. Sophie, feeling his gaze upon her, looked up from her work, and their eyes met. She delighted in his affectionate smile, and hoped that he would see her feelings for him in the smile she returned.
For a while they sat in companionable silence, until Jack’s deep voice filled the room. ‘Sophie, dear, I have been meaning to speak to you for some time about the letter we had from the Christy-Pallières last week.’
Sophie was used to her husband’s fine seagoing voice and only nodded. Jack had often spoken to her of his one-time enemy, and Christy-Pallière’s kindness towards him and Stephen when Jack had been obliged to strike colours to the French back in the year ’01. Jack always spoke highly of his seamanship, and she knew them to be friends and pleased to be able to correspond openly after the war.
‘He congratulated me on having been made Admiral of the Blue.I am deeply appreciative of his kind words.’ Jack beamed at Sophie ‘He and his wife will be in Paris next year for the opera season. This might be the last time they will be going. Guillaume does not like to admit it, but he is starting to feel his age.’ Jack continued. ‘He’ll be sixty-eight come next September, and he mentions that Madame has been feeling poorly since the beginning of November. Still, nothing can keep them from going to the opera, and Toulon does not offer much.’
Sophie looked at her husband across the table and made affirmative noises, waiting for him to continue.
‘He has invited us, Stephen and Mrs Wood to spend time with them in July. His sister would be pleased to welcome us for as long as we liked. He makes special mention that Les Bayadères was favourably received last year.’
Sophie busied herself with her needles while pondering on her reply. She had never enjoyed travelling much and liked it best when at Woolcombe with her husband and family. She had not spoken French for years and could not think how she would feel comfortable in an environment where she did not understand the country’s people.
Jack continued in as near to a whisper as was possible for him. ‘I will mention it only into your ear, dearest heart that I hope we will see a different opera while we are in Paris, because that one is set in India. I should not like to see Stephen brought low by memories.’ Here he paused and looked down, seemingly lost in thought.
Sophie knew what he meant, put her knitting down and reached to grasp his hand on the knitting table to convey that she understood what he did not mention: the fact that even after all the years that had passed since her cousin’s fatal accident, India might still remind Stephen of Diana.
She patted Jack’s arm and deliberately changed the subject. ’How very kind of Monsieur Christy-Pallière, but the girls will soon be home for their Christmas holidays. All those things that need preparing right after the New Year, things that you men have no idea about! You have surely not forgotten Charlotte and Fanny will be coming out next Season?’
Sophie saw the blush rising on Jack’s face and knew that, yes, he had. She continued, not giving him the chance of a reply which would only have embarrassed them both. ‘I was touched when Lady Keith herself brought up the subject in one of her letters earlier this year, suggesting that she and my Lord Keith should open their home in London for the girls to make their debuts from Piccadilly. I am also deeply conscious of her kindness in offering to introduce Charlotte and Fanny at Court.’ Taking a deep breath, she brought forth what she considered her strongest argument. ‘I am also certain that you and Monsieur Christy-Pallière would like to exchange your opinions on the navies of our countries in detail. Some things can be better discussed in person, I feel.’
Jack reached over to press her hand. ‘Maybe we can give this some more thought after Stephen, Brigid and Mrs Wood have arrived for Christmas? It is only a few more days until then.’
Sophie blushed at the affection in his voice. ‘Please to consider, that after the Season, Woolcombe has to be prepared for autumn and winter. You and Stephen should go to Paris, since you like the opera so much and their opera season will have begun by then. But as you say, we can speak of it at a later date.’ She smiled again at Jack before taking up her knitting once more, while Jack reached for the latest edition of the Naval Chronicles.
When asked, Mrs Wood was charmed by the invitation but, after giving it some thought, declined. She wished to spend more time with her brother Edward after their return from South America. She remarked that Brigid would surely prefer watching all those exciting preparations for London before she returned to school now that she and the Aubrey twins got along better. Once it was clear that the ladies did not wish to join them, therefore, Jack wrote a letter accepting for himself and Stephen.
As soon as Stephen knew Jack had accepted the invitation to Paris for both of them, he had suggested they stay for a few days at Black’s before venturing on to Paris. He had written a second note to the club asking for tickets to a number of concerts at the Academy to be arranged. Even then Stephen had been certain that his friend preferred fighting pirates and slave ships at overwhelming odds to having to be present at morning calls and balls and polite talk, as he had had to do during the Season.
They strolled towards the club in the mild night air, each lost in thoughts. Today’s concert had brought music by London Bach as well as Bach father. Stephen remembered fondly when he and Jack had first played some of his music.
The last piece performed had been Old Bach’s Chaconne. It was a strange piece of music, something not unlike the edge of madness or at least of a nightmare, and Jack had told him years ago that he had felt as if playing the music might lead him to very strange regions indeed.** Ever darker, ever deeper, drawing the soul in. It was a piece of music that, since he had first heard it from Jack, made Stephen nearly affrighted for Jack’s soul, so engrossed had his friend been.
He looked at Jack’s face, illuminated by a streetlamp. His friend seemed far away with his thoughts, but then he looked sideways and smiled as if he had felt Stephen’s gaze on him.
‘I take it kindly, very kindly indeed that you arranged for those tickets. It was a wonderful concert.’
Stephen nodded. ‘What say you to a glass of port before we retire to our rooms?’
Jack briefly chewed his lower lip. ‘Perhaps we could have it sent up? It has been a long day.’
‘Indeed we could. I would welcome the chance to sit down in comfort, as I am sure you would.’ As an afterthought Stephen added, ‘We are not as young as we used to be.’ They crossed St James Street towards the club.
‘I should not like to call us–’ Jack began, and then interrupted himself. ‘Ah, there we are.’
They went slowly up the stairs to Black’s door, Stephen’s lips twitching as he recalled the twinkle in Jack’s eyes. It seems he had managed to stir his friend out of his sombre mood.
The club’s front door opened for them. ‘I noticed you coming across the street,’ the doorman said, tipping a finger to his hat. ‘I trust you had an agreeable evening?’ At their nods he continued, ‘A small parcel from France arrived for the admiral shortly after you left for the Academy.’ He took it from a side table and held it out to Jack.
Stephen threw a look at the address and recognized a familiar handwriting. A parcel from their Toulon friend? How unusual.
‘Thank you, Tom. Please to have a bottle of port sent up to me.’ Jack turned to the staircase, and Stephen followed, having bid the doorman a good night.
Their usual rooms on the second floor were at the end of the corridor, with the soft carpet absorbing the sounds of their steps. They retired to their respective rooms. Stephen was quick to unlock the connecting door in the dim light from the small lantern on the bed’s side table. Then he used the candle from it to light the reflectors on the wall.
He heard someone knock at Jack’s door and, though he did not clearly hear the exchange of words, he was certain it would be the port being delivered. He shrugged out of his coat, hung it over one of the chairs and bent to loosen the fastenings of his breeches. He sat down to heel off his pumps. With a sigh he stretched for his wine glass, which he held towards the light. It looked clean enough; still he gave it a hurr and a bit of a rub with the corner of his waistcoat.
After a short rap at the connecting door, Jack entered, the port and his glass in one hand, a small wooden box in his other. He was en déshabillé, without coat and boots, his shirt-sleeves rolled up over his wrists.
‘Would you believe Guillaume sent biscuits? Why would he send them here and not to Woolcombe?’ Jack sat down, not on the second chair but on Stephen’s bed, after he had deposited bottle and glass on the side table. He propped himself up on the bed’s headboard, crossing his stockinged feet on the blankets.
‘You are comfortable, admiral, dear?’ Stephen cocked his head, smiling at his friend, who looked wholly desirable, stretched out as he was, with the fastenings of his breeches undone and the upper waistcoat buttons open. ‘Would you be wanting to seduce me by any chance?’ The room felt very warm all of a sudden, and he loosened his cravat. To divert himself from the picture Jack presented, Stephen turned to open the wine bottle.
‘Not I. Have you not said that none of us are getting any younger? I feel it would be unbecoming for two old men like us to engage in such activities, do you not think so?’ Jack tilted his head up.
Out of the corner of his eye Stephen became aware of bright blue eyes travelling up and down his body. He also noticed the way Jack had stretched his not inconsiderable height out on the bed, thus also stretching the fabric across strong thighs. Admittedly, Jack would always be well padded, his blond hair was shot with grey, and there were traces of a dewlap, but his eyes still shone a brilliant blue. While still fumbling to open the bottle, Stephen tried not to think of what those large hands could do to him, or how those thighs could close around his legs.
‘Pray, pour us some wine.’ Jack held out his glass.
Stephen took the filled glasses over and held one out to his friend. It seemed so much more inviting to share the bed with his friend than sit in the chair all by himself.
‘You were in a sombre mood after the concert,’ he said. ‘What brought on this change? Not that I mind in the least.’ He motioned for space on the bed, and Jack shifted towards the wall.
‘When you looked at me before we crossed the street, you seemed at some loss,’ Jack said. ‘Pray forgive me; I was so caught up in the concert’s music that I did not attend properly.’ He sipped from the glass, its contents sparkling shades of red in the candlelight.
‘I had been contemplating on the Chaconne and how it affects you. I am glad to see that you are in lighter spirits now.’ Stephen held out his glass for Jack to hold, and stretched out alongside his friend. He settled himself against a broad shoulder before taking back his wine. To keep the lighter mood, he changed the subject. ‘You mentioned biscuits?’
Jack pointed at the small painted box on the side table. ‘There is a small note with it; feel free to read. It is addressed to you as well to me.’
Stephen reached for both, placing the box on Jack’s chest and unfolding the paper to scan the contents.
‘You told him how pleased you were about them last winter?’ He squinted at Jack over the rim of his glasses and noted his friend’s fine blush with complacency. ‘Did you tell him too that Sophie and the children hardly got any of them, because you were so partial to them?’
While Jack seemed to search for a suitable reply, Stephen occupied himself with the knot of his friend’s neckcloth, drawing it open and away from the folds of the shirt. He bent to nuzzle at a small fold of skin near Jack’s earlobe.
‘I might have, when I accepted the invitation,’ Jack mumbled, undistracted, ‘and I was not the only one who liked them. I recall that you enthused about the delicate pastry.’
‘Well, yes, they were nice.’ Stephen ran the tip of his tongue over his lips.
‘Nice, nice? You very nearly inhaled them.’ Jack looked bashfully at Stephen’s mouth. He took off his friend’s glasses and reached across to put them next to the wine, out of harm’s way
‘Not as who should say,’ Stephen defended himself, before peering into the now open box. ‘Do you mind?’ Without waiting, he unwrapped one of the cœur de France, made from small slices of caramelised puff pastry, reminiscent of pig’s ears as he had seen them at one of the small French bakeries in London. Their pastries had been much larger, though, and nothing like these two-inch patisseries. Even after travelling for more than a week, the biscuit was crisp and fresh, dissolving into little pieces when he bit on it. Some of them settled like tiny snowflakes on Jack’s cheek.
‘They are just the right side of sweet.’ By now, Jack munched on his second piece, sending puffs of caramelised pastry to lie on his chest while one piece stuck to the corner of his mouth.
Stephen outlined the shape of Jack’s lips with the tip of his tongue before he swiped at the tiny sugar flake. He deepened their kiss, but there was no overriding urgency. It seemed as if they had both decided to go gently on each other.
Stephen finally raised his head for breath. He brushed at Jack's cheek, murmuring ‘You would like another one?’
Instead of an instant reply, Jack drew him in for another kiss before releasing him. ‘What, nothing of portly men of sanguine complexion - ?’
‘As if I ever said such a thing.’ Stephen took out another biscuit before putting the box behind him on the floor.
‘Did you not?’ Jack whispered at Stephen’s temple. ‘But yes, please. It is even better with a taste of you.’
Stephen’s hand slipped under the open shirt to stroke the wide chest and a conveniently near nipple, while he bent, the pastry between his teeth.
‘Come here.’ A strong, large hand weaved itself into his sparse hair and drew him down, and Jack nibbled at the proffered pastry until their lips met.
Stephen thought that he had never been fonder of this French pastry than now, as he let himself fall into the taste and scent that was unique to Jack.