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Robert had no real objections to Barrow coming with him to America, or at least none that he could put into words. The man was skilled and diligent about his work, although he only engaged in the most perfunctory of conversations. No jokes, no banter, never sharing his opinion, (probably because his opinion was surely something Robert wouldn’t want to hear). He got the impression that Barrow enjoyed the perks of being a valet, the light workload and the prestige, but when it came to actually dressing a man, he gave off the impression that it was beneath his dignity. Even while he kept his gaze politely averted, Barrow’s seething resentment was obvious. It radiated off him like a burning coal, in the rough way he would brush Robert’s jacket or button his collar.
If Barrow didn’t spend all his time looking as though Robert had thoroughly inconvenienced him, he would have been quite nice to look at. Not that Robert did that sort of thing anymore. His time at Oxford and that dig at Tell Nebesha were wonderful, but he had put that part of himself away when he got married. He felt lucky that he could, that his feelings were just as strong for women, and that Cora had eventually charmed her way into his heart. Too many of his peers had been railroaded into unhappy marriages.
The trouble had started practically the moment they boarded the Aquitania. Robert had booked the Raeburn Suite as it had a cabin for servants and had paid for a second-class ticket for Bates instead of third to save him from climbing so many stairs for his meals. In all the commotion he hadn’t bothered to change the booking. It hadn’t mattered particularly, only when he was on the garden terrace on A deck he could see Barrow directly below him on the terrace of the Verandah Café on a sun lounger, his nose in a book, smoking cigarette after cigarette and drinking those little Italian coffees. He knew he couldn’t begrudge the man for enjoying himself, all he really had to do on the voyage was dress him in the mornings and evenings and was free to spend the rest of his time as he wished, but did he really have to spend it in his line of sight? And did he have to be so casual about taking advantage of facilities that would normally be far beyond his means? Bates would never have spent his afternoons on a sun lounger.
That evening, Barrow appeared promptly to dress him for dinner, his hair damp and smelling faintly of chlorine. The scoundrel had gone swimming. But second-class passengers could only use the gym and swimming pool if they were guests of a first-class passenger. Had he taken Robert’s ticket somehow and blagged his way in? No, Robert’s ticket had been in his breast pocket all day. Where did he get a bathing suit? It was a mystery. At dinner, Robert bumped into some acquaintances from London, Lord ‘Bally’ Balmont and his friend Mr Mewes-Stanley. Robert didn’t know much about Balmont, other than that their fathers had been good friends once upon a time. He vaguely remembered something about the other man having to resign from some government job after some scandal or other but couldn’t say what it was.
“I say, the facilities here are most excellent,” Mr Mewes-Stanley told him. “Bally and I had a go in the steam room. It was quite invigorating.”
“Oh, you must try it. You must,” Balmont agreed.
To his horror, Robert remembered what the scandal was. Balmont had very narrowly avoided getting arrested before the war. The papers had called it gross indecency, but the gossips he knew had referred to it as an orgy, an all-male orgy. It occurred to him that his companions were more than just business partners.
“It’s funny how many familiar faces one runs into while travelling,” Balmont mused. Robert felt his stomach drop. Who were the other familiar faces? Was one of them Barrow? Not that he was in any position to judge but Balmont was so slimy. Granted, Barrow was also slimy, but still he was young and probably quite sheltered compared to men of Balmont’s ilk.
Nevertheless, the three of them had enjoyed their meal, and Robert had drunk far too much of a rather lovely 1914 Chateau Lagrange and an 1811 Napoleon. In telling a rather animated story about getting thrown off a camel, he had ended up spilling the Cognac all over his sleeve and shirt front and decided it was probably time to call it a night. As he stumbled back to his suite, he was met with one of the maintenance staff leaving Barrow’s cabin, flushed with his uniform in disarray.
“I say, Is everything all right?” Robert asked.
“Quite all right, sir,” the man said, eyes widening at being caught, “I was just…checking the pipes,” and he scurried off before Robert could point out that he didn’t have a toolkit.
As much as he hoped this would be the only incident with Barrow, it was not to be. There were no more midnight visitors at least, Barrow had quickly learned to be more discreet, but there were little things that suggested he had simply moved his antics to another location. The quiet click of the cabin door in the middle of the night made Robert sick with worry. But he hadn’t been caught so there was no reason to complain and Robert was too polite to broach the subject. It hadn’t been that long ago since the whole incident with James had happened. One would think that Barrow would have learned something from the experience. But every day he would notice the dark circles beneath the other man’s eyes, the smell of alcohol on his breath, red swollen lips, a lurid purple bruise just beneath his jaw not quite covered by his collar. Every day he would see the other man on that blasted Verandah terrace, and every day there would be a different gentleman with him, all handsome, all fair haired.
Was Barrow simply nursing a broken heart in these encounters? Why was he thinking about it so much? Was he jealous? He had never thought of Barrow being desirable before on account of his horrible personality but is seemed as though he had already worked his way through half the men onboard so there must have been something about him. Thoughts of Thomas Barrow with his various paramours intruded his consciousness, Thomas sandwiched between Lord Balmont and Mr Mewes-Stanley in the steam room, getting bent over his bathroom sink by the maintenance worker, being admired as he jumped from the top diving board, his bathing suit clinging to every line and curve of his body. It was maddening. Robert sighed. It was going to be a very long trip.