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I am still in bed when Monty bursts into my room, as usual without a knock.
“Hello, darling!” He hops into the bed next to me, helping himself to a roll from my untouched breakfast tray. “Having a bit of a lie-in? What did you get up to last night? Is Sally Appleton back from visiting her granny?”
“Hello, Monty,” I say. I am happy to see him, as always, but my voice is weak.
“Are you all right, Perce? Did you get into your uncle’s brandy without me last night?”
I am fuzzy, and weak, and discouraged as I always am after one of my fits. I had felt it coming on last night and tried to warn my aunt, but I had dropped to the floor before I could get the words out. I came to my senses later in my room, and no one had been to see me since except the maid to silently bring my tray this morning.
“I’m all right, Monty. Just tired.”
Maybe I would tell him. Maybe right now, before my brain started working correctly again and reminded me that my fits were a secret, and no one outside the family was supposed to know.
“You’re tired too much these days, darling. You need to eat some good ham along with your tea and toast.” He gives my hair a fond ruffle that is unfortunately much too rough in my delicate state and leaves me quite dizzy for a moment.
“Well, if you don’t feel like talking, you can just listen,” Monty continues. “You’ll never guess who came throwing pebbles at my window last night looking to pay a call.”
I can absolutely guess. “Not Richard Peele,” I moan.
“Of course Richard Peele! How did you know? Never mind, no doubt he’s realized that he’s tired of the charms of the young misses and is finally realizing that he much prefers the lads. He told me last night how much he missed me, and he thinks of my dimples all the time, and he couldn’t stay away.”
I hate Richard Peele. I hate the way he strings Monty along like this, ignoring him in public and then every few months creeping to his window for a secret visit. I hate the way Monty lights up afterwards and seems to think that Richard will start greeting him in public again.
“Monty, I wish you’d just tell him to go away. You don’t need him. He’s not going to change."
Monty’s face, always sunny and amused, clouds over for a moment. “Well, maybe not, but there wasn’t exactly a line by my window, and a lad gets lonely.” He turns to look at me, his voice softer. “I did come by to see you after supper, but your aunt said you were practicing your violin and could not be disturbed. She was a bit short with me, even though I was absolutely charming as usual.”
“She doesn’t like it when I’m ill.” That was the truth, or at least a very small part of it.
“No one likes it when people are ill,” says Monty.
My heart sank.
“Perhaps you should leave then. I’m quite tired and need to rest.” My words come out sharper than I mean, sharper than I thought I had the energy to muster. Monty looks a bit surprised.
“Very well then, darling,” he says. I think I’ve hurt him a bit, and I’m ashamed that it makes me feel good. Not so weak.
Monty hops off my bed and saunters out the door, though he does turn around and give me a wink before he exits.
I’m not sure when my feeling for Monty changed, exactly. I’ve always loved him best of anyone in the world. My aunt and uncle are kind, but there is always an effort behind their kindness. They look after me because they are good Christians and I am a colored orphan who has been entrusted to their care, not because they genuinely love or understand me.
Monty and I have always been inseparable, but in the last year I have had to withhold part of myself from him. The reason I hate Richard Peele so much is not just because he treats Monty so callously, but because I wish I had the courage to throw pebbles at Monty’s window in the night, and climb into bed with him, and to kiss him, and stroke his hair, and do whatever two fellows can do together.
Monty finds weakness and illness tiresome, though. If I were to tell him how I feel, I would have to tell him my other secret, and I can’t imagine that would go well. So, for now I bear both my secrets in silence, and glare very hard at Richard Peele whenever he comes into my presence.
***
I sleep the rest of the day and through the night. I don’t think anyone comes to check on me. When I awake the next morning I feel much better, almost back to normal as I usually do. There is only a lingering feeling of despair, as it had been longer than usual between fits. I had been nursing a secret hope that perhaps I was headed towards a cure.
After breakfast, I walk towards Monty’s house. I’m certain that he’s forgiven me for my curtness yesterday, if he even remembers at all.
Monty’s home has an oppressive air this morning. The maid doesn’t look me in the eyes as she lets me in, and I see Felicity alone in the breakfast room.
She looks up from her novel. “Monty’s still in bed,” she says tartly. “I heard him stumbling about last night. No doubt he was in his cups. Father was quite annoyed. He arrived from London yesterday.”
That explains the dark cloud over the house, and the maids startling at every sound. I make my way to Monty’s room and knock softly before I enter.
The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark and stuffy, but Monty is awake.
“Hello, darling,” he says, his customary greeting, but his voice sounds hoarse and broken.
I pull up a chair next to his bed. “Rough night?” I ask.
“You could say that,” he answers, and it’s then I see in the gloom that he has a dark bruise on his cheek, and his lower lip is painfully swollen.
“Monty! What happened!” I exclaim, and I touch his cheek before I can help myself. He winces.
“Ahhh! You know I usually like it a little rough, but please be gentle this morning, darling.” Monty’s voice is brittle.
“Sorry, sorry.” I withdraw my hand from his face, but I can’t help it, I clasp his hand in both of mine instead. “Poor Monty,” I say gently.
We look at each other for a long moment. I hate seeing Monty like this, but under the pretense of examining his injuries I can stare at his face for a few extra moments. Without his usual jaunty expression, he looks younger and more vulnerable, like when we were children, before life got so complicated.
“I heard your father arrived yesterday,” I say, and watch Monty’s mouth settle in a hard line. Despite my automatic questioning when I first saw him, I know exactly what happened.
“Yes, well, Richard Peele was rather indiscreet tumbling out of my window the other night, and I suppose word gets around.”
And that is all he says. I suppose that is all there is to say. I would have to be blind not to notice that the Earl’s visits home tend to coincide with a dramatic uptick in Monty’s bumps and bruises, and that both have increased since Monty’s expulsion from Eton a few months ago.
“Oh, Monty,” I sigh, “What are we going to do.”
It’s not a question, but a general exhalation of despair. I know what we are going to do, which is exactly what we have done. Monty is my best friend, and I know that I am his, but we both have our secrets. To tell him mine would risk having him treat me like an invalid, and I couldn’t bear it. For him to put his secret into words would expose the powerful hold his bastard father has over him, and I know he thinks exposing his shame and fear would make me think less of him. Of course, it would not.
Which leads to my other, bigger secret, besides my epilepsy. I love Monty. I love him more than a brother, more than a best friend. He is the sun to my moon, the melody to my harmony. Seeing him here bruised and battered again fills me with the fierce need to protect him from his father’s wrath, and the best way I can do that is to keep my love to myself.
“Would you like to rest?” I ask him. I am still holding his hand.
“A little,” he answers, and closes his eyes. “Would you stay with me?”
“Of course,” I say, and pull the chair closer. Monty squeezes my hand tighter, and gradually I feel his grip relax as he dozes.
I don’t know what will happen to us. Maybe we could get away from this place, from my uncle and Monty’s father and smug Richard Peele. Maybe to the Continent, where I could study music, and Monty could shed some of his protective layers. We could see who we are and what we are to each other there. We could feel what it’s like to be free.
Maybe someday.