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The day after the incident with the letter, Utterson went to dinner at Henry Jekyll's house. Why should he not? It might easily be mere coincidence that the letter in Hyde's hand looked so similar to Jekyll's penmanship, and Utterson could not— would not— believe that his friend could have lied to him so brazenly.
So he accepted the invitation to dine, and arrived at his friend's house with his hair neatly parted and his clothes brushed, standing tall and silent and dignified, even as he felt a note of anxiety humming within like a steam-engine boiler left unattended.
Poole opened the door, and the expression on his face gave Utterson a bit of ease. The butler had an unmistakable sense of relief hanging about him: a brightness of the eyes, a looseness of the shoulders, a relaxed smile barely hidden by his formal expression. Utterson felt himself letting down a bit too, and greeted Poole with more friendly warmth than usual, asking after his master as the butler took his coat and hat.
"He has been much exhausted, but his heart has been cheered," Poole said, again betraying the profound relief. "Since yesterday he has been often in prayer, and reading, and seems very much more like his old self."
"I am glad to hear it," Utterson said with his usual understatement— his heart had jolted almost painfully with joy to hear that Jekyll was doing better, and he was eager to see him in person to confirm.
Poole led Utterson to the dining-room and then retreated, and Jekyll, who had been reading by the fire, jumped up to greet the lawyer. Indeed, the vitality of his manner could not be mistaken: his face was flushed with healthy color, his eyes sparkled, and as he crossed the room to Utterson, his gait was energetic.
Utterson began to speak his customary greeting, but to his surprise, Jekyll reached out and caught up both Utterson's hands in his own, squeezing them with such unconcealed affection that Utterson broke off mid-sentence, glancing down at his hands engulfed in Jekyll's strong grasp.
"Gabriel," Jekyll murmured, looking into his eyes as if stargazing in them. "Gabriel, thank you so much for coming."
Utterson was a bit rattled by this unusually affectionate greeting, but he reasoned that it was the wholesome effect of Hyde's disappearance from his friend's life. He felt the effect on himself as well: his whole body seemed lighter, as if he'd been wrapped in chains of anxiety that had now fallen off. He managed to find words: "I am quite glad to see you looking well today."
"So am I!" Jekyll chuckled. He was still holding holding Utterson's hands, and Utterson was conscious of the way the doctor's thumbs absentmindedly brushed over his skin as he spoke. "I feel a new man today. You were right all along, that I should never have…" He trailed off, and a cloud passed his face briefly before he brightened again. "Anyway, dearest Gabriel, you were right, and I was a damn fool for not heeding your advice. But now I have, and how free I feel, how free! But come, let us eat dinner, for I am famished, and the cook has prepared a feast."
Jekyll's hands had slipped away from his, and Utterson's hands felt chilled without them, though the skin was slightly pink from the force of the touch.
Utterson followed Jekyll to the table. "Then may this be the beginning of a new chapter in your life."
"Amen!" Jekyll said, raising a glass of wine. Utterson took his own glass and they clinked them together, the sound ringing as the glasses parted. Jekyll drank the toast with gusto, his lips pressed against the rim, his large fingers delicately twined around the stem. Utterson took a small sip of his, and then they began the first course of the dinner, sometimes speaking, sometimes sitting in the comfortable silence that they had always known. Neither of them brought up Hyde again, even obliquely, and Utterson was content that they had put the subject behind them forever.
After dinner they retired to the fireside with glasses of wine, and Utterson was feeling so relaxed, he even let himself enjoy the taste of the fine vintage.
It truly did seem that all was well— Jekyll leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, his expression soft in the glow of the firelight. The doctor absentmindedly ran his finger along the rim of his wineglass, creating a soft humming sound, and Utterson found his eyes settling on this hypnotic motion. Jekyll's hands bore few marks of age, being well-muscled and smooth, but were covered in little burn marks from his strange experiments, which spangled his skin like stars, and his fingernails were neatly-trimmed but perpetually lined with the dusty residue of the laboratory. His natural grace was all the more striking for him being a large man, his hands moving about with the ease of a swan in water.
Utterson felt a tingling on his fingers and palms, a memory of the sensation of those large, graceful hands engulfing his.
Utterson never initiated even the most casual touch with anyone, save a firm handshake to his clients, and Jekyll was not usually demonstrative in this way, either. In their friendship, particularly in their university days, it had always been Lanyon who pulled them together, both physically and emotionally. Lanyon gave hugs freely, and would often speak with one hand thrown casually over Utterson's or Jekyll's shoulders. Utterson always thought his demonstrations to be undignified, especially when they were in public, and yet he had to admit there was a comfort in the weight of another's hand on him, in the possessive grace of the touch that said, We belong to each other.
Jekyll's touch would be heavier than Lanyon's, of course, but more gentle and restrained— it was impossible to picture Jekyll catching him up in an exuberant embrace, though he could imagine Jekyll's hand resting on his shoulder, his thumb brushing the edge of Utterson's collar, or perhaps slipping his hand around his waist, his fingers resting on his side…
Utterson blinked, both surprised and offended by these thoughts. The wine must have gone to his head, he reasoned, or perhaps staring at Jekyll's fingers circling the rim of the glass had nearly hypnotized him, after all.
He tore his eyes away from Jekyll's hands, but in doing so realized that Jekyll was gazing at him in turn— watching Utterson watch him. Jekyll's eyes, dark brown in any circumstances, looked nearly black in the low light, reflecting the firelight like embers.
Utterson knew Jekyll was fond of him as a friend, but in this moment he felt that something else was at play, some strange stirring that moved uneasily through his body, prickled at his skin. Again the thought of Jekyll reaching out to take his hand passed through his mind unbidden, and the more he fought it, the more it blossomed in his imagination: the broad fingers interlacing through his own, the sensitive flesh between each finger sliding along the other's skin…
Working hard to keep his movements unhurried, Utterson set down his wine-glass, still half full. "Harry, I'm afraid I shall have to retire for the night. Thank you for dinner."
"Of course!" Jekyll said, setting aside his glass in turn. "You must come again on Tuesday— I insist!"
"There is no need to insist," Utterson said, standing. "I shall be here at eight o'clock."
Jekyll's smile warmed his whole face as he got to his feet. It was curious that Utterson had seen him smile so much, and yet the joyous expression had barely left a line on his face. Was it some strange case of his nature that his face bore no marks of happiness? Or was it just that he only smiled in the presence of Utterson? (What a ridiculous thought.)
Utterson made for the door, but as he walked near Jekyll, instead of turning to accompany him to the foyer, Jekyll touched his arm.
Utterson slowed and came to a stop under that touch, feeling a curious burning through his coat-sleeve. He turned to look up at Jekyll with a questioning expression, trying not to be conscious of the little space between them.
Jekyll's eyes were still dark, his face soft, his voice almost dream-like. "Gabriel, you are the truest friend a man could ask for. Thank you."
Jekyll was often frank with his praise, so Utterson didn't know why his words made the prickling sensation under his skin increase. "We are old friends, Harry— I hardly need thanks."
"I mean it, old boy. I have put you through sorry trials this past year, and yet you have stuck by me, never saying a word against me."
Utterson shifted his stance, conscious of the hand still on his arm. "As you have said, a new life begins for you today, so there is no need to mention the old, save our long-lasting friendship."
"Too good," Jekyll murmured. "You are too good for me."
Utterson realized that the distance between them was slightly less than before, though he couldn't quite say when that had happened. Jekyll's breath smelled of the fine wine they'd been sipping, the fragrance mingling with the taste lingering on Utterson's tongue.
Jekyll's right hand was still anchored on Utterson's arm, but he lifted the other one. Utterson saw the movement in the corner of his eye, but could not turn to look at it, for he was engulfed by the intensity in Jekyll's gaze, as if he had plunged into a pool sparkling with embers, wobbling reflections of firelight that pulled him deeper and deeper into a hypnotic trance.
Jekyll's fingers brushed Utterson's face.
The sensation was both electric and devastating, wiping his mind clean of everything he'd ever thought or said or done. His whole being focused on this sensation: the calluses of the fingertips gliding along his cheek, the soft pads of the fingers resting beside his ear, the supple warmth of the palm against his face, the heel of the hand skimming his lips. Jekyll's thumb brushed feather-light on the skin beneath his eye.
Utterson's mouth was dry, his body slack, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears as he gazed up into Jekyll's dark eyes, breathing his wine-sweet breath.
Jekyll leaned down toward him.
There was scarce any distance between their faces at this point— only a few inches— but in that space lay just enough time for Utterson to come to his senses.
Just yesterday, Jekyll's reputation had come within a hair's-breadth of being ruined forever. Hyde was out of his life now, and he could start again. This was his chance to continue being respected and respectable, and in this moment the doctor was risking throwing that all away— and for what? For him, Gabriel Utterson?
(It was terrifying, thrilling, overwhelming, to think Jekyll would risk that for him…)
Far be it from him to allow his friend to risk so much!
Utterson stepped back.
He felt Jekyll's hand flinch before it left his face, leaving trails of fire burning on his skin. Utterson thought he saw a wave of anger on Jekyll's face before it was replaced with disappointment.
Utterson let out a hard breath, not realizing that his breathing had been so shallow.
Jekyll stared at him, the brightness of his countenance dulled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Utterson rushed to speak first. "I shall see you on Tuesday for dinner, then?"
Jekyll's expression flickered a candle guttering in the wind, but then he rallied with a polite smile and said, "Of course, Gabriel." His voice took on that dreamlike edge again, sending a thrill of fear, or something else, up Utterson's spine. "You know you are always welcome here."
Utterson bowed his head. "Goodnight, old friend." Then with careful, deliberate steps, he turned his back on Jekyll and left him in the warm room, stepping outside into the foyer and then beyond, into the cruel November cold.
~~~