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Autumn is coming, Wordie thinks as he stares out the window of his family’s carriage at passing countryside. The sun is setting; soon, when they leave for these balls, it will already be dark by the time they arrive.
He barely hears Alison’s enthusiastic chattering over the heavy pounding of his heart. He means to listen—he should respond in ways other than mm and oh?—the rest of their family certainly won’t—but he can’t focus, can’t follow her rambling sentences. He’s busy thinking of…a bright smile, sparkling eyes, of—
He shakes his head quickly, looks at the sun so long it burns his retinas. He can’t think of that. Not now, in the carriage, with his family pressing in on every side. They might…they might notice. They might look at him, his warm cheeks, and know. He doesn’t know how they would, but he feels like they must.
“Jock, you aren’t going to just stand in the corner the entire time again, are you?” Alison asks, looking at him from the opposite side of the carriage with a playful smile. “It makes me terribly sad to look at you.”
“Yes, Jock,” his mother says, looking at them unexpectedly. “Won’t you please ask at least one young lady to dance tonight?”
Wordie swallows thickly and says, “Yes, of course.”
His mother’s eyebrows rise in surprise, and Alison gasps rather dramatically.
Wordie bites the inside of his cheek and says solemnly, “Alison would never let me avoid at least one dance.”
Alison laughs and agrees, and his mother sighs and turns away again. His father glances at him disapprovingly, as if joking is yet another thing frowned upon by God, and says, “You’d think you wanted to be a bachelor forever.”
Wordie pretends not to hear, and gazes out the window, and sighs.
*
The moment Wordie enters the estate where tonight’s ball is being held, he hears the piano.
He stops and looks around, nerves gripping his throat, but he can’t immediately see where it’s coming from. There’s other music playing, a cello and a violin somewhere, and the piano is fainter, playing a different tune. He lets Alison pull him into another room, and there too he tries to subtly crane his neck over everyone’s heads, and curses not having been blessed with any impressive height. Clark would be able to spot him—spot it—the piano—in a moment.
He can’t see Clark either, though, and he’s relieved, because when Alison abandons him to join some of her friends, he’s free to wander around, and no one stops him or asks him any questions. He paces silently through rooms, between pillars, through doors, following the tinkling of music. The proper band hasn’t started yet, and he needs to move quickly before they do and he can’t hear it anymore.
And then quite suddenly he walks into another room, and the music is louder, clearer, and he spots the glossy brown of a pianoforte, and. There he is.
Wordie stops breathing.
Leonard Hussey is sitting behind the keys of the piano, playing for a small gaggle of older women and, Wordie thinks, three or four of his own sisters.
Wordie doesn’t approach. He stands just inside of the entrance to the room, out of the way, and watches from there. No one looks at him, or notices him. He watches Hussey’s lithe hands dance over the piano keys as he grins at the women around him, bright and charming. He says something to them, too softly for Wordie to hear him over the music, and several of them laugh in delight. One of his sisters shoves his shoulder playfully, and Hussey plays a discordant note and laughs, head thrown back. Wordie’s eyes trace the line of his throat, the curve of his mouth. His stomach twists.
And then Hussey looks at him, head turning to him as if Wordie had been the one suddenly lighting up the room, and their eyes meet. Wordie’s stomach dips, his breath catches. Hussey smiles at him, small and private. Wordie’s hands itch.
Hussey plays one more song, at his audience’s behest. It isn’t a jaunty tune, like the last. This is a song Wordie knows, vaguely. Slow, sweet, wistful. A love song, if anyone was singing the lyrics. No one is, but they resonate in Wordie’s head all the same. A song about wanting. Yearning. Wishing.
Hussey’s eyes lift again, and he makes eye contact with Wordie, long and intent. Wordie’s throat goes thick, and he nearly has to look away. It takes every ounce of bravery in him not to.
The song ends, and Hussey’s small audience applauds and titters as he stands, smiling at them. “I really must go,” Hussey says, maneuvering himself out from behind the piano. “I can’t bear to steal everyone’s rapt attention all night!”
Wordie stands, frozen, as Hussey turns in his direction, begins moving towards him. Through the door, he can hear the strains of the band beginning their set. A few people hurry out to join in the dancing. Hussey makes as if to follow them.
He is caught before he can, by a lovely young lady—Wordie can’t remember her name, there are always so many people at balls, and none of them are ever desperate to introduce themselves to him. This young lady seems to already know Hussey, though; she curtsies with a sweet smile, asks him something in low tones. Hussey grins and responds with a small bow.
In the past, Wordie’s stomach would have twisted with…with jealousy, with embarrassment. And there is still some jealousy, but only that they are able to speak to each other, so openly, in the middle of the room. That she is able to smile at him thusly, and not hide it. That she is able to ask what it is she’s asking.
And jealousy also that Hussey is so good at this. Wordie admires, with an aching warmth, Hussey’s ease, his charm. The way he chats with the young lady amiably for some moments, but doesn’t show anything beyond vague friendliness, never implying any blatant interest that isn’t there. He just smiles at her, hands tucked behind his back, and then says, “In any case, Ms. Hall, I really must be going. But might I just say—and don’t tell him I told you so—but I believe I noticed my brother William looking your way earlier tonight…”
The young lady—Ms. Hall—blushes slightly, and says, “Oh! Did he?”
And Hussey extracts himself artfully, and continues on his way, angling for the door, but eyes straying back towards Wordie, lingering just next to it, trying to look distracted.
“Oh, Wordie,” Hussey says, playing at just noticing him for the first time. “How do you do? Did you just arrive?”
Wordie feels like he’s tripping over his tongue before he’s even said anything. “Oh,” he says, “yes, just a moment ago. I was—I was wondering where all the women had gone.”
Hussey laughs, bright and open, eyes shining. He stands close to Wordie, and looks up into his face. It’s not crowded enough in this room to necessitate the closeness, but Wordie doesn’t think it’s too close. He thinks it isn’t close enough.
He clears his throat.
“Were you going to dance?” Wordie asks awkwardly.
“Are you offering?” Hussey asks, and Wordie feels his cheeks go hot, under his entirely unfashionable beard.
“I,” he says. “I.”
“I was thinking of getting some air, first,” Hussey says, saving him from embarrassing himself. “I think there’s a very nice balcony here. Just above us, on the second floor.”
“Oh,” Wordie says.
“Less of a crowd,” Hussey says, and for a moment he looks quite hopeful, almost shy.
Wordie coughs and says, “That sounds…very pleasant.”
Hussey smiles quickly, and disappears from the room.
No one stops Wordie to ask him any questions about why he’s avoiding the ballroom as he strides right past it, and onwards towards the stairs. No one ever asks Wordie why he isn’t dancing, other than his parents, and blessedly they don’t catch sight of him. There are never any young ladies hoping Jock Wordie will catch their eye and ask to dance. Not quiet, studious Jock Wordie, younger son of John Wordie, who rarely talks about anything but science, and insists on wearing unfashionable facial hair. No one is hoping he will suddenly develop an interest in them, not when he has an older, far more eligible, far more normal brother.
He shakes his head, pushing through the glass doors of the room directly above the ballroom, onto the balcony. It looks out directly at the setting sun, the sun blazing gold and pink. The balcony is empty. Wordie stands at the railing, listening to the music wafting up from the open windows below, and takes several deep breaths to try and calm his racing heart. He knows what Hussey said. He knows what Hussey…implied.
He goes over what Hussey said, and implied, two weeks ago, at their last meeting. The look in his eyes. When they—when he—
The door opens quietly behind him. Wordie turns, and sees Hussey standing there, smiling, fiddling with his cravat. “Hello,” he says.
Wordie clears his throat and says, “Hello.”
Hussey moves to stand next to him. Wordie’s heart starts pounding again. They’re alone again. For the first time. Since—
“It’s chilly,” Wordie says, foolishly.
“A bit,” Hussey agrees, grinning up at him. “Are you cold?”
“No,” Wordie says quickly.
“Good,” Hussey says. “Or I might have to take your hands. And warm them.”
Wordie’s heart gets stuck in his throat.
There’s a long, heavy silence. Wordie tries desperately to think of something to say, anything, before Hussey looks at him and changes his mind. He must, he must think of something, but every word has fled his mind in Hussey’s presence, under Hussey’s intent gaze.
And then. “D’you fancy a dance?” Hussey asks.
Wordie can hardly speak. “A dance?”
“Yes,” Hussey says. “To keep warm. We’re at a ball. I’ve seen you dance before.”
“With my sister,” Wordie says.
“I know,” Hussey says. “I watched.”
“Oh,” Wordie says. He’s watched Hussey dance a dozen times, often with his sisters, occasionally with cousins or family friends. He’s quite good. Wordie is not. “I. Er—”
“Unless?” Hussey says, and the slight twist of his mouth belies an uncertainty, nerves he doesn’t otherwise show, nerves echoed in Wordie’s stomach, his sweaty hands. And Wordie realizes how brave he must have been to suggest it.
“No,” he says quickly, before Hussey’s can shutter. “I mean— I. I’d like that. A dance.”
Immediately, Hussey’s face splits in a smile. Wordie’s mother had always told him not to smile so wide, that it made him look silly, that it showed too much of his imperfect teeth. He loves the way Hussey smiles, open and full of delight, his face creasing, his cheek dimpling. He likes the slight gap between his front teeth, and the boyish charm in the way his eyes nearly close sometimes from the force of it. “Good,” he says. “And I daresay I’ve seen my sisters practicing enough that I can figure out the girls’ part. Just this once”
A new song is just about to start. Wordie thinks—he thinks he knows this one. He practices with Alison sometimes, when she nags him. He clears his throat nervously and stands squarely facing Hussey, heart beating heavily against his ribs. Hussey stands looking at him with a broad smile, cheeks pink in the chill evening breeze. He curtsies playfully, and Wordie bows without taking his eyes off him. They step towards each other as the violins sing. They’d started a shade too close together—they nearly bump into each other. Wordie breathes shakily, and steps away again in time with the music. Hussey turns a circle around him, and they both swivel their heads to keep looking at each other.
On the next turn, Wordie turns as well, and their hands go out to meet between them. The touch of skin on skin goes through Wordie’s arm like fire, and he feels a shiver that could have easily come from Hussey as well as himself. Usually, in a dance, the young lady is wearing gloves—and usually the young lady is his younger sister. But this is Hussey, and Hussey’s hand, and. Wordie gulps, and their hands part again, and the dance continues.
“It’s a lovely night,” Wordie says clumsily, as Hussey steps around him again, and then away.
“Yes,” Hussey says, smiling. “What a sunset.”
It’s lighting Hussey’s profile with gold, painting his hair bronze. “You look—” Wordie begins, and then chokes.
“Yes?” Hussey prompts.
Wordie shakes his head minutely, unable to finish, unable to…to voice it. He’s never. He doesn’t know how.
But Hussey doesn’t relent. “I look?”
“Lovely,” Wordie all but coughs. “Too.”
“Oh,” Hussey says, and his cheeks are so pink.
Wordie feels like he might throw himself off the balcony. But the dance brings them together again, and by rote, he places one hand on Hussey’s back as they turn. Their breaths catch in tandem.
“I…” Hussey says, and looks up at him. “Do you still…?”
Wordie’s heart shudders. “Yes,” he says immediately, hoping it’s the right answer.
Hussey wets his lips as they part again, heads turning on their necks. “Properly, as you said?”
“Yes,” Wordie breathes. “I. I’d like to. I mean. I don’t want to be—” He shakes his head, and thinks back to what he said, what they said, the last time they were alone. “I don’t want to be silly about this,” he says now. “I want to be…I’m quite serious. About this.”
Hussey smiles at him breathlessly. “Yes,” he says. “Me too. I’d like to do it properly, too.”
Wordie goes dizzy. Their hands meet again. Wordie’s hand goes to his waist. He rests it lower now, on the small of Hussey’s back. This time, he knows they both shiver.
He also knows, instinctively and simply rationally, that neither of them has any clue what they’re doing right now. He knows that neither of them has any experience with this, with feelings like this. It’s part of the reason why he…why he wants to do it like this, wants to do it properly, as he’d said. One of the great things about English culture, in Wordie’s opinion, are the rules, the strict etiquette, the absolute definitive ways of doing things. He was taught how to approach something like this, by his parents and by society. He knows what he’s supposed to say and do, and when to say and do it, even if he doesn’t know why or how or how it’s meant to feel. Wordie likes rules, he likes certainty. In a situation like this, where he feels lost and frankly quite frightened, it’s a comfort to fall back on custom.
And now he admits, shyly, his voice barely rising above the soft music from below, “I’ve always wanted to…to court someone.”
Hussey’s eyes go bright. “Have you?”
“Of course, I— With women, I— It never. Felt right. But the idea of it… Meeting someone, and spending time together. Getting to know them.” He swallows thickly, and remembers the words he’d used, last time. I’d like to get to know you better. If you’re amenable. He flushes in embarrassment. “I’d just never met someone,” he finishes awkwardly. “Until now.”
Hussey smiles, and his dance steps falter for a moment, like he’d lost his footing. He catches himself, and their hands meet again. They lock eyes, face to face, and Wordie feels Hussey’s hand tremble. “I’ve always wanted to be courted,” he says, voice wavering just a touch.
Wordie’s chest goes tight with emotion. He thinks, for a moment, that he’d expected to never feel like this. He’d thought it simply was not in the cards for his life. Not for Jock Wordie.
It’s indescribably lovely, dancing with Hussey. His hands are almost shockingly warm, intimately warm. His hand fits so well in Wordie’s; his waist in the curve of his palm. It ought to feel strange, dancing like this with a man, but it doesn’t. It feels wonderfully right, as if he’s been doing it his whole life.
He pulls Hussey close, as the dance requires. Hussey looks up at him, his smile wide, his cheeks sweetly pink. The sight of it is so arresting that Wordie trods suddenly on Hussey’s foot, and he winces away embarrassedly, mumbling an apology, cringing desperately. The dance brings them apart again, and Wordie feels cold and awkward until it brings them back together a moment later, and he sees Hussey’s smiling face, his outstretched hand. He steps playfully on Wordie’s toe as they turn a circle and says, “See? We’re learning together.”
Wordie’s throat goes tight, and he manages a smile and a nod.
And then, quite suddenly, the song ends. Wordie blinks, as if waking from a dream, and they step apart. Hussey curtsies again, beaming. Wordie takes his hand and bows over it. He doesn’t even think as he draws it closer to himself, up, bending his head towards it. Entirely on impulse, he brings Hussey’s hand to his mouth to kiss it softly.
Somehow, the press of warm skin against his lips is utterly shocking. He drops Hussey’s hand as quickly as he’d kissed it, and takes a step back. “Sorry,” he says, face hot. “That was— I shouldn’t have. I mean. I ought to’ve asked. I apologize if that was. Too forward.”
Hussey is staring up at him with bright eyes, looking quite winded. “No, no,” he says breathlessly. “It’s…it’s quite alright.”
Wordie laughs uncertainly, and looks around for something to say. He fans himself with one hand, and says, “I’m feeling quite warm after that.”
“Me too,” Hussey says. “Would you…like to join me for a turn about the garden? It’s quite nice, I’ve been before.”
“Yes,” Wordie says, with no hesitation. “Yes, I’d like that.”
It’s a beautiful night. The sky is rapidly darkening, but it’s still light enough to see each other, and the breeze is cool and light on their warm cheeks. There’s a lovely flower garden walled in by hedges, and they stroll through the cobblestone paths between the flowerbeds slowly, close enough that their hands occasionally brush between them. They chat in low tones, about balls, about their families.
“My sister, Doll—that’s Daisy, my younger sister—she’s just like me, we’re very alike.”
“All of the Husseys are alike, in my experience,” Wordie says, mouth quirked wryly.
Hussey laughs brightly, the same laugh shared by all of his many siblings. “What, are you saying you’d trade me in for any of them? If we’re so interchangeable?”
“No,” Wordie says, perhaps a shade too earnestly. “No, I’d never.”
Hussey smiles at him, teeth flashing in the fading light. “It’s a bit unfair, though. For the girls. All of the qualities considered quite charming in me are found to be unbecoming in Daisy. She hasn’t had an easy time making friends among the local refined young ladies since we moved here.”
“Hasn’t she?” Wordie asks, surprised. “Alison’s spoken well of her.”
“Has she? Oh, I’ll have to tell Doll, that would cheer her up. I think she’s a bit worried all of the other girls look down on her, or find her silly or excessively chatty.”
“Alison’s never said anything of the sort,” Wordie says. Their sisters are the same age, and have moved in the same circles all summer, since the Husseys moved into a late uncle’s home in the spring. “She actually did say she found Daisy charming. I think she used the word refreshing, too. She tires, sometimes, of…society women.”
Hussey laughs brightly. “It pleases me to hear that. That Alison thinks well of her, that is. I think well of her, after all, and she’s just like me, so—” He pauses, and glances at him sidelong. “Well. I’m glad the Wordies approve.”
Wordie bites back a shy smile. “I’ll tell Alison she should call on her sometime,” he says. “Perhaps I might chaperone a visit to your family’s home.”
“Oh,” Hussey says with a grin. “I think Daisy would like that.”
They smile at each other, small and private.
Not long after, they both know they ought to return to the ball. People will notice they’ve gone, if they haven’t already. And it isn’t too suspicious that they’re absent, even together—they’ve certainly been seen spending time together at functions all summer—but still, it wouldn’t necessarily do to have people come looking for them. They turn back towards the manor, and slowly wend their way back through the garden. Night has fallen, and the light is low, but the moon gives off enough light and their eyes have adjusted enough that Hussey’s face is clear when Wordie stops and turns to him before they enter the glow of the house.
“I—” he says, and then stops and swallows thickly. They are shielded from view from the house by some ornamental shrubbery, but he still hesitates, looks around briefly as he collects himself. “I…enjoyed spending this time with you. Tonight.”
“Oh,” Hussey says, eyes bright, reflecting starlight. “Me too.”
“Could I call on you again?” Wordie asks, his mouth clumsy around the words, unpracticed. “Soon?”
“Yes,” Hussey says breathlessly. “I’d like that.”
“Alright,” Wordie says. He swallows again. Nervously, he reaches out, and somehow, his hand finds Hussey’s in the darkness. He clears his throat and, haltingly, lifts it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles, polite and proper.
Hussey makes a very small, pleased sound as he does. It makes Wordie’s entire body hum, and he moves to draw away again, but Hussey’s hand turns to catch his, hold onto it. He brings it, slowly, towards himself. His face is tipped up to Wordie’s, eyes dancing. He draws Wordie’s hand towards his mouth, but before reaching it he turns it over, palm up. Wordie watches, breathless, as Hussey bends his head over it. His lips are warm and soft against his palm, lingering.
Wordie’s knees go weak. He exhales shakily, and soaks in the sensation of Hussey’s lips against sensitive skin, memorizes the feel of it. Imagines it, just briefly, against his mouth. How it might feel to kiss him like that.
And then Hussey is pulling back, smiling up at him. “For you to keep,” he says, and curls Wordie’s fingers over his palm for him. As if holding the kiss there.
“Oh,” Wordie whispers. He opens his fingers again, helplessly, to brush against Hussey’s cheek, so close still, his skin warm and soft. Hussey seems to move without thinking, leaning into the touch automatically, like a cat, and for a moment Wordie is cradling his cheek, holding it there. It’s unspeakably lovely.
And then there’s a sound from the house, a sudden burst of laughter, and they both lean back, just slightly, as reality comes filtering back in. Wordie pulls his hand back regretfully, and curls his fingers over his kiss again.
“Well,” Hussey says, and his voice sounds a little thick, his gaze intense. “I suppose we ought to go back in.”
“Right,” Wordie says. “Yes.”
“I ought to find Daisy,” Hussey says. “I promised her a dance.”
“Me too,” Wordie says. “Alison, I mean. Not your sister.”
Hussey laughs. “You could ask her too, if you like. I think she’d be delighted.”
“Oh. Yes, I will,” Wordie says earnestly.
“I was only joking,” Hussey says, smiling at him, head tipping to the side. “I know you don’t like to dance.”
“I liked dancing with you,” Wordie says, and goes warm with embarrassment. “And—I’d ask her. For you.”
Hussey sighs softly. “Jock Wordie,” he says, with some feeling, eyes wondering. “You’ve got to stop, or I’ll fall quite in love with you.”
Wordie’s throat goes thick. “My apologies,” he manages to say.
Hussey laughs. “I can’t pretend I mind,” he says. “Come, now. Let’s go in.”
“Wait,” Wordie says, and catches his hand again. Impulsively, he brings it to his mouth, and presses a kiss to his palm. His skin is warm, and Wordie has the insane urge to try to taste it on his lips as he pulls away. Instead he just rasps, “For you to keep.”
Hussey beams at him, and curls his fingers over it.
They walk back to the manor like that, curled fists in their pockets around each kiss. It will do, Wordie thinks, until the next one.