Work Text:
One time, when Coram was a boy, he'd gone to the carnival with his ma, his pa, and his two wee sisters. It'd been the most spectacular experience of his young life. His ma had bought him and Susy and Becca two hard candies each, one for now and one for later. Coram still remembers the zing of sugar and citrus on his tongue as clearly as if it were yesterday. There had been two clowns, their faces painted in riotous grins, making the crowds scream with laughter as they pretended to trip and hit each other in a race to the stage. There were acrobats, and contortionists, and a small troupe of monkeys dancing as a man played a ditty on a flute. Coram and his sisters had been so giddy with joy that their faces became sore with smiling.
Then they'd been ushered into a small tent to see, as it proclaimed on the plank of wood posted outside, the ‘most dangerous beast ever known to mankind’. The rank smell of the inside of that tent still comes easily to Coram's nose: feces, unwashed humans, and rotten meat. He and his sisters, undaunted, had pushed through the crowd all the way to the front so they could get a look at the dangerous beast. Instead they’d seen a big cat—though big was relative, as scrawny and starved as the animal was— with orange and black stripes and big yellow eyes that stared mournfully out through the bars. It hadn't seemed at all dangerous to Coram, and though the beast’s caretaker had overheard him say as much to Becca and tried to convince him otherwise, he hadn’t changed his mind. He’d even stuck an arm through the cage bars, to the giddy delight of Susy and Becca and the horror of the surrounding adults.
The cat, rather than rushing to bite his arm off at the shoulder, had huffed a huge sigh and rolled onto its side. From underneath its belly fur emerged the cat’s huge front paws, big enough to cover a man’s face with ease. It would have been a terrifying sight, to be sure, but the squirming in Coram’s stomach had been pity and disgust rather than fear. If the creature had once had claws, they’d long since been removed, leaving behind only scar tissue and decay.
Right now, Coram feels like nothing so much as that poor tiger: old, declawed, and weary, watched warily by a crowd of onlookers who’ve paid a tidy sum to see the strange and exotic creature. The setting is much more palatable, at least, a beautiful but stark receiving room in the Brentwood Estate.
Coram kneels before his soon to be liege lord, the Duke of Brentwood. Behind him, the lords and ladies of the court watch on. Many of the ladies titter behind fans or whisper in one another’s ears. The men are less subtle, their expressions ranging from rage to mild distaste at best. It’s not often that a common beast like Coram is elevated to join their exalted ranks.
The Duke, a heavyset and balding man in his mid-fifties, takes both of Coram’s hands within his own. His palms are clammy and soft, like bread dough, in stark contrast to Coram’s. To his credit, the Duke manages to hide his discomfort well enough. Not many men enjoy touching crippled flesh.
The contrast makes Coram flush in humiliation. Everyone in the room can see it on his face, he’s certain. He inherited his pale and splotchy complexion from his mother, and he’s just as likely as her to turn bright red when he’s angry or embarrassed. Right now, he wishes he’d inherited some of her common sense as well. Certainly she’d never have let this farce go on for so long.
He gives his oath nonetheless.
“Here I do swear, by mouth and by hand, fealty and service unto the Duchy of Brentwood. In peace and in war, in living and in dying, I promise to defend our fair land against all that might desire her harm with deed, word, or force. I shall serve faithfully and with honor from this hour henceforth, until I am released by my lord or by death, whichever may come first. So swear I, Coram of Lansing, General of the Hundreds of Brentwood.”
The words come easily. After all, hadn't he imagined saying them enough? As a squire, young and naive, he'd repeat them to himself, over and over, during any menial task he might be assigned - and there were many. Even blooded, a knight in truth, he would say the words in his mind most nights, a kind of mantra to help him fall asleep. Because what else was there to strive for, for a man such as he? He’d never wished for glorious death, like many a young fool. No, not him. He'd been smart, and ambitious, and ruthless, and damn it all if he hadn't gotten what he’d asked for. A command, many victories, and now a title.
But the oath is bitter on his tongue. What is a title worth, in the end? His hand, turned from his most valuable asset into this wretched thing? His honor, long since destroyed? The lifesblood of thousands of men? Of one man in particular?
Apparently it is. The Duke speaks. “In return for your solemn oath of fealty, I, the seventh Duke of Brentwood, grant you the lands and manor of Danby to hold as your fief. Henceforth, you shall be known as the Baron of Danby. Rise, my vassal, and greet the day as a new man.”
Later, privately, the Duke gifts Coram a second prize.
The Duke is high on feasting and friends, his round face dripping sweat as he laughs heartily. Coram is sweating as well, though more from the tension in his shoulders than from overindulgence.
“Danby!” He says, clapping Coram on the shoulder. Being referred to by his new noble title is strange. ‘General’ sits more easily on his shoulders. “Come and see the second gift I've procured for you.” He ushers Coram into a small receiving room.
Inside, half a dozen men and women kneel, chests exposed and eyes turned to the ground. Their thick gold plated collars mark them as slaves, and expensive ones at that. Few, if any, of them would have been pressed into slavery as debtors or criminals. Their perfect posture and soft, unmarked skin mark them as slaves since birth or early childhood, raised and trained in one of the ‘gardens’ run by the merchant guilds.
The Duke gestures at the slaves proudly. “Take whichever one you like. You deserve it, after all you’ve done for me!”
Coram recognizes the group at once. They look significantly worse than when he'd seen them last, though they're calmer today than when he's found them hidden away in a side chamber in the east wing of the traitor’s castle.
Coram and his men, charged to find the traitor and present him to the Duke for justice, had come across a locked door in the east wing, where the family resided. He’d ordered it broken open, in case the traitor was hiding within. Instead of their quarry, they'd found only pampered bed slaves clinging to one another as they sobbed in terror.
One of the slaves, older and steadier than the others, had apparently been anticipating their arrival. As soon as he’d seen Coram and identified him as the ranking officer, he’d prostrated himself on the ground and cried, voice trembling but clear, “We are loyal to the Duke of Brentwood! We are his chattel, please. Don’t harm us, we are loyal.” The man had looked up from under his curly black hair and made direct eye contact with Coram, eyes wet and pleading. “Don’t harm them, please,” he’d said again. “We won’t resist. We belong to Brentwood, we're loyal slaves of His Grace, please. Please.”
Coram remembers thinking that it was a smart maneuver. Declaring their loyalty made them property of the Brentwood estate, legally, and damaging them at that point would've been akin to stealing from the Duke himself. It might not have stopped a group of less civilized men, but Coram has always run a tight ship and the troop he'd had with him that day was no exception. He'd left a trustworthy man behind with orders to bring them to the war camp once the fighting had ceased, and moved on with the rest of his men.
Coram hasn’t thought of the group of slaves since, but it seems that the time between then and now has not been kind. Before, they’d been scared but healthy and polished. Now, they look sallow and unrested, dark shadows ringing their fear-bright eyes. Nonetheless, they're beautiful.
“What am I supposed to do with a slave, Your Grace?” Coram asks gruffly. “Seems they'd be more trouble than they're worth, uneducated and another mouth to feed.”
Only nobility are allowed to hold slave contracts, and those that do are few and far between. Six contracts at once is a grotesque expense, especially for bed slaves who don't contribute back in the same way a working slave might. Another reason to think less of the traitor.
It's never occurred to Coram that he might hold a slave contract of his own, so his immediate resistance to the idea comes as a surprise even to himself. Revulsion tastes like bile on his tongue.
The Duke barks a laugh, like Coram’s words were just a funny joke. “Another mouth to feed? Lest you forget, old friend, you're rich now! And Danby Manor is a dusty relic, to be sure, but the land is fertile. Even with your penny pinching, you'll have plenty to spare. As for what to do with a slave…” The Duke shrugs his shoulder. “It's been five years since he died, Coram. Time to move on.”
Coram bites the inside of his cheek savagely.
“Plus,” the Duke adds, “Won't it be nice to have a young thing warming your bed again?”
“Your Grace—”
Another clap on the shoulder, harder this time. “I insist.” Most people don’t argue when the Duke takes that tone of voice; Coram makes a policy of only doing it when men’s lives are on the line. His peace of mind, unfortunately, doesn’t make the cut.
Coram sighs and surveys the slaves, more closely this time. Might as well make the best of it and pick one that’ll be useful around the house. He has to admit he'll need the help, a middle aged man managing a great estate all on his own for the first time. At least the slaves have lived in a manor house—they must know more than him, a lifelong resident of barracks and tents. And then once they've helped out enough for it to be reasonable, he can let them buy out their contract and be done with the whole situation.
The three women are immediately out, timid young things that remind him more of children than grown women regardless of their curves. The men are more physically tempting but otherwise much the same. Coram’s eyes catch on the man who'd spoken up - a bit older than the others, dark of hair and golden of skin, with a steadiness to his gaze that the others lack.
“What’s your name?” Coram asks, approaching.
“Avery, my lord,” he says, voice clear and ringing.
“What skills do you have, Avery?” Coram asks, falling unintentionally into the tone he uses to interrogate new recruits.
Avery looks up from under his eyelashes at Coram, giving a glimpse of warm brown. When he looks back to the ground, his eyes catch on Coram's ruined hand for a moment. It's only natural, but the little bit inside of Coram that rejoices in pleasing beautiful men flinches away.
“I am a pleasure slave, my lord,” he says. Although his tone bleeds subservience, Coram hears the ‘obviously’ as clear as day.
“And beyond that?”
Shifting his weight slightly from one knee to another, Avery says, “I dance passably, and I can play the lute. My lord.”
In other words, nothing useful. “Is there anything else?”
This time Avery takes a moment to respond, seemingly considering his answer. “I can read and write and I have my sums, if that’s what you’re referring to, my lord. And I have experience enough with regular household tasks. Also…” He pauses, and Coram waves for him to go on. “I have some experience with plants, my lord. And gardening.”
It’s more than Coram expected from a pleasure slave. “I’ll take this one,” he says, turning slightly to address the Duke. “If I must.” Although he’s watching for it, he can’t tell what Avery thinks about being handed off to a cripple. His face is as blank as before.
The Duke snorts and asks, “Are you sure, old friend? Don't you want one of the younger ones?” He pauses almost contemplatively and adds, “One thing I could never fault the bastard on was his taste.”
“I’m sure,” Coram says. “He’s the only one that looks like he’s got any sense at all.”
“Well, you’ve always had strange priorities,” the Duke responds. “He’s yours. I’ll have him sent along to Danby with your things.”
Good. At least he’ll have a few days to himself before he has to figure out what to do with a goddamned slave. “Thank you, your grace.”
“Wonderful. Now come along Danby, let’s share a few cigars in my office. We have much to discuss before you leave for your new home.” The Duke slings an arm around Coram’s shoulders and begins to steer him out of the room. “Though I expect to see you soon enough, my friend. Did you hear that Lancashire passed to Georgie’s fool of a son? I expect he’ll run things into the ground, and then I think we’d best press my cousin Bertram’s claim.”
As they leave the room, Coram turns to look behind him and catches a glimpse of one of the young women with her arms around Avery. Consoling him, most likely, for being given away. Probably also for being handed over to Coram specifically: nobility only on a technicality, balding and crippled, and on the older side of middle aged.
At least Avery won’t have to pretend to hide his disgust in bed. The thought of sleeping with a slave is even more repellent than the thought of owning one. And although it hasn’t been particularly relevant for several years now, Coram prefers lovers who want to be in his bed.
Enough self pity. Coram turns away and follows the Duke out of the room.
A long and lonely carriage ride takes Coram to his new home only a week after the homage ceremony. His first sighting of the place proves the Duke right: Danby manor is a dusty relic.
Coram’s initial survey is discouraging. Lord knows when someone last took proper care of the place. The grounds are in complete disarray, with weeds running wild, two fountains that won’t run, one that spits murky sludge instead of water, and several eerie statues that are so damaged by the elements and time that it’s impossible to tell their original form.
The house itself is slightly better off, neglected but not damaged. The exterior has a sort of stark beauty that Coram admires, all stone and right angles except for the grand archway that leads through into the back courtyard. Two imposing towers stand at either end of the main house and connect to the wall surrounding the front courtyard, which is guarded by a small gate and accompanying gatehouse. The interior of the manor house is less to his taste—the previous owner had a predilection for ostentatious wallpaper and gilding—but not unlivable.
Coram had sent several letters ahead of him inquiring after local men for any necessary repairs, and he’s already received several answers. Similarly, he’d posted ads in the nearby towns looking to hire a valet, a housekeeper, and a cook—according to Lt. Fitzwilliam, one of Coram's trusted subordinates, this is the absolute bare minimum for a great house. Fitzwilliam had worked as a footman for several years before joining the Brentwood militia, so Coram trusts his opinion over his own on this sort of thing.
Coram can admit the housekeeper is likely necessary, seeing as he’s never looked after anything larger than his own single room, but the cook and valet seem wholly useless. He’s managed to dress and feed himself for fifty odd years now, and he doesn’t need anyone else’s help with it now. But Fitzwilliam had insisted anything less would be unspeakably odd, and had even tried to convince Coram to hire on more staff: maids, footmen, a groundskeeper, and a hallboy. Three staff and one slave is already four people too many to be getting along with; Coram had put his foot down at the bare minimum. All three staff are already hired, though only the housekeeper is in residence as of yet. The valet will arrive in the next several days, and the cook a few days following that.
Having now seen the state of the grounds, Coram is reconsidering. He suspects even a whole corps of groundskeepers wouldn’t be able to make the place look presentable in anything less than three months. He’ll have to post another ad or two, it seems. It also appears he’ll need an accountant and a solicitor—the sheer amount of legal and monetary paperwork that came with his new title is enough to make a nervier man despair. Only a week ago, a solicitor wouldn't have met with him if he'd been the most amiable sod in town. Now, two have reached out to him and have offered their services at his earliest convenience.
It's after this first extraordinarily long day of organizing, deciphering, and letter writing that Coram sees Avery again. Most of the house is still closed up, but his new housekeeper, Mrs. Spencer, had insisted that she move in early enough to prepare the master suite before his arrival. Barring the barracks, which had slept at least a hundred soldiers at a time, it's the largest room Coram's ever slept in. It's also extraordinarily ugly.
Nonetheless it's his, and since it doesn’t remotely approach the worst place he’s ever had to bed down, Coram is pleased to see it. Nothing sounds better right now than a night’s rest on a featherbed, so Coram enters the room and starts removing all of the new, unwieldy layers of fabric he’s expected to wear as a nobleman.
He's down to his shirtsleeves when he hears a soft sound. Muscles clench; Coram rounds the ridiculously sized bed and sees a human shaped figure on the floor. Adrenaline surges—an intruder—and Coram instinctively grabs for the knife on his belt. Even after years of training swordplay with his left hand, he can only use it if he’s consciously considering it. Instinct inevitably steers him wrong, and he takes the hilt of the knife in his right hand. Hot lightning shoots through his arm from palm to shoulder socket, and he can’t stop himself from letting out a tense grunt of pain.
The delay is enough for his conscious mind to weigh in. It's not an intruder come to assassinate him, but the bed slave he'd been gifted by the Duke. Avery.
Kneeling with his head down and shoulders trembling with strain, Avery is dressed only in a simple set of cotton smallclothes and a set of chains. A heavy iron collar sits around his neck, and his hands are bound tightly behind his back in a set of manacles. His feet are bound too, Coram realizes, connected to his hands. With the way he's kneeling it must be extraordinarily uncomfortable.
It’s impossible not to notice that the pose is also extraordinarily alluring; Avery has a fine lithe form, with small dusky nipples and the lightest dusting of curly chest hair that gets thicker and darker as it travels down towards his groin. His legs are spread enticingly, just enough to show off his eminently touchable and creamy inner thighs.
Avery looks up from the ground at Coram, seemingly only just realizing his presence. Despite the pain the knife is still held tight in Coram's crippled hand, and Avery visibly pales as he notices it. Immediately, he folds over his knees as best he can within his restraints and presses his cheek into the tops of his thighs. “Forgive me, master,” he says to the plush rug, the voice Coram remembers as clear and piercing now trembling in fear. “Please, tell me what I've done wrong and I'll improve.”
There's a long beat of silence as Coram stares blankly at the terrified and mostly nude man in his bedroom. Avery apparently takes something significant from this silence, because he continues, “Master, punish me however you wish. But I would beg you, please tell me how I offended you before you use the knife. I won't do it again.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about, man?” Coram asks, bewildered. Slowly, he takes the knife from his right hand with his left and returns it to his belt.
That's enough to make Avery look up from the carpet. “Haven't I offended you, Master?” Something seems to occur to him as he asks the question, and he takes in a heaving breath before he continues, face steeped in horror. “Though of course it is your right to do with me as you will, Master. I'm sorry for presuming. I need not have erred for you to choose to punish me, or perhaps I'm to learn the rules on my own. I'm sorry, please—"
The longer Avery speaks, the more Coram's confusion turns to frustration. Finally, he interrupts. “I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now,” he says, voice tight. “Whatever you think is happening isn’t. I am not going to punish you, and if I were, it definitely wouldn't be… like this.”
Avery stares at him blankly. Coram continues. “We'll discuss this tomorrow,” he says, eager to end this uncomfortable interaction. “Where are the keys to those shackles? I'd prefer to have my bedroom to myself, if it's all the same to you.”
When Avery doesn't immediately respond, Coram sighs and turns to look around the room for the keys. They're not on the bedside table, or in the chest at the foot of the bed, or in the wardrobe.
“Here, Master.” Coram hears from behind him. He turns to see Avery pointing from behind his back towards the windowsill, right next to where he's kneeling.
“They were next to you the whole time? How long have you been in here?” Coram asks. Good lord.
“Since before noon,” Avery says. “And yes, they’ve been there the whole time, Master.”
It's difficult to comprehend that a man would be so uninterested in his own freedom that he'd sit next to the keys to his manacles and not even attempt an escape. Still, there's nothing to be done about it now other than to free Avery himself. And get him out of Coram’s bedroom.
“Fine,” Coram replies shortly, taking the keys and stepping behind Avery to unlock his hands and feet. The backs and sides of his ankles are raw and glistening, and from the way Avery moves his shoulders after they're freed there's likely some kind of damage there as well.
Avery stumbles as he tries to rise to his feet; Coram catches him by the elbow, with his left hand this time, and lowers him to sit on the bed. “Your legs gone numb?” Coram asks, intimately familiar with the issue.
“Yes, Master,” Avery responds quietly, his whole body curved in a preemptive flinch. Coram takes his hand back carefully, and Avery relaxes minutely.
“Then once the life gets back in them and they stop tingling, you can leave,” Coram says, stepping away and turning to rustle in his wardrobe so he doesn't have to look at the beautiful man on his bed.
“Yes, Master.”
“Find me at breakfast tomorrow, and we'll discuss your place in the household. And… whatever just happened.”
“Yes, Master.”
Coram heaves a sigh. “Stop calling me that, it's disturbing. At best, I'm a sir, alright?”
“Yes… my lord?” Avery tries. Coram wishes that he could hear even a hint of humor in Avery’s tone.
“Better,” he admits. “I'll have to get used to all the bowing and lording eventually, at least.”
“My legs are greatly improved, my lord,” Avery says eventually. “Shall I go?”
“Yes, please,” Coram says, still not turning to watch as he hears Avery stand behind him.
Coram waits until the door clicks shut before stripping off the rest of his clothing and climbing into the grotesquely large bed. What a godforsaken day.
A habitually early riser, Coram wakes at dawn, dresses in more torturous layers, performs the stretches and exercises that hack of a doctor had assured him would return all of the range of motion in his hand, and makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. It’s one of the only other habitable rooms in the manor, and the only one to make him feel anything less than a fraud.
Unfortunately, his plan to procure his own breakfast is foiled when he encounters Mrs. Spencer, already awake and sitting at the kitchen counter. She’s dressed much more sensibly than Coram in a sturdy gown of blue linen, sipping a cup of tea and reading from a small book.
“Mrs. Spencer,” Coram says, trying not to startle her.
She jumps anyway, almost spilling her tea, and turns to look at him with an expression of dismay. “My lord!” she half-shrieks, shooting to her feet and patting frantically at her hair and then her dress. She reminds him of nothing so much as a tea kettle that’s been on the stovetop too long, shrieking and shuddering as it boils over.
“I didn’t expect you so early,” Mrs. Spencer continues after she’s composed herself somewhat. “Whyever didn’t you ring for me?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Spencer,” Coram says, a bit stiffly. Ring for her? How, and more importantly, why, would he have done that? “I only came to gather a bit of food to break my fast. Would you mind pointing me towards the larder? It should be stocked by now, if the grocer’s letter spoke true.”
“My lord!” she repeats, this time with disapproval threaded through the address. “I will gather your breakfast and bring it to the family dining room.” She pauses, then adds, “Upstairs.”
Apparently a title does not prevent strong-willed women from ordering you about. Coram would be relieved if he weren’t so frustrated. “Very well, Mrs. Spencer,” he says, as obligingly as he can manage under the circumstances. “I’ll await you upstairs, but before I go, I have to ask. What did you mean when you said I should have rung for you?”
Predictably horrified by his lack of knowledge, Mrs. Spencer goes on to explain that there is a bellpull in Coram’s bedroom as well as small hand bells throughout the house, and he is to ring if he needs anything at all. It’s an intelligent system, and one Coram plans to use as little as possible.
Breakfast is a simple affair, sausage and eggs on toast, which Coram appreciates and Mrs. Spencer is visibly discomfited by. She apologizes several times even though Coram is the one who’d ordered the food, and insists that once the cook and footman arrive everything will be much more appropriate. After setting out his food and a pot of tea, Mrs. Spencer puts her back to the gaudy wallpaper and stands quietly, seemingly content to watch him eat in complete silence.
Coram puts up with it for a few minutes before he can’t stand it any longer. He swallows the last bite of his toast and asks, “Mrs. Spencer, won’t you sit with me and have a bit to eat?”
Her face puckers like a lemon. Before she can respond, Coram waves her away. “Never mind, Mrs. Spencer. I understand. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
In quiet defiance more appropriate to a child than a man in his forties, Coram chews loudly through the rest of his breakfast, staring sullenly at the fine mahogany table and wondering if anyone would notice or care if he left Danby behind altogether to become a mercenary for hire.
His musings are interrupted by the arrival of Avery, who slinks into the dining room in nothing but his smalls. When he sees Coram, he blanches and falls to his knees with a loud thud that makes Coram’s own kneecaps ache in sympathy.
“Master, please forgive me. I didn’t realize—I mean—” Avery’s voice is low, panicked. “My lord. Please forgive my tardiness,”
A heavy stone sits uncomfortably in the bottom of Coram’s stomach. In retrospect, he wishes he’d handled last night differently. He’d been almost out of his mind with exhaustion and so frustrated with his new lot in life that he hadn’t spared much thought for the poor man. Seeing him now, vulnerable and sickly in the morning light, Coram resolves to do better by him. They’re stuck together for now, after all.
Mrs. Spencer, who Coram would have thought would have her sour lemon face on again, is staring determinedly out the window across from her station against the wall. Whether that means Avery’s appearance is more or less appropriate than her joining him for breakfast, Coram has no way of knowing.
He turns back to Avery. “Good lord man, stand up and come sit at the table. There’s nothing to forgive. Would you like some breakfast? Mrs. Spencer has been so good as to prepare something for us.”
Moving slowly, Avery gets to his feet and approaches the table. “Sit… on one of the chairs, my lord?”
Coram holds back a sigh. “Yes, on one of the chairs.”
Avery pulls out the chair next to Coram and perches on the edge of the seat, hands tight in his lap. He doesn’t reach for any of the food, so Coram slides the plate of sausage over to him. “Go on, it won’t bite,” he says. “We can talk after you’ve had your fill.”
Tentatively, Avery takes a bite of a link of sausage. When he isn’t reprimanded, he begins to eat with more gusto. Satisfied, Coram sits back and sips at his tea, considering. He’d picked Avery when the Duke insisted because of his steadiness and sense, but it seems something has changed since then. Perhaps it’s the lack of clothing, which Coram doesn’t fully understand. It had made a sort of sense in the bedroom, considering the nature of Avery’s profession, but what had possessed him to come to breakfast half naked?
Absently, Coram reaches over and pours Avery a cup of tea. Could it be something as simple as nerves on the first day of a new position? He remembers being quite nervous his first few days of training as well as the first time he was put in command.
Coram resolves to think of Avery as a new recruit and nothing more or less, regardless of the fact that he looks to be only a few years younger than Coram himself. Coram will provide support, resources, and instruction, and in return Avery will perform tasks around the house obediently. A relationship built on mutual respect. Simple. Straightforward. Familiar.
Eventually Avery finishes his meal and turns to Coram. Promisingly, he seems to have settled slightly.
Coram clears his throat. This isn’t a conversation he’s ever had to have before. A new recruit, he reminds himself. Just think of him as a new recruit.
“So, Avery,” he starts. “How is it that you came to be where you were last night? And… how you were?”
Liquid brown eyes flit behind Coram and then down again. “Duke Brentwood’s soldiers put me there, my lord. They thought you would enjoy a welcoming gift, is my understanding.”
Coram flushes. He should have known better to ask something like that in front of Mrs. Spencer. Of course it would make Avery uncomfortable, and likely Mrs. Spencer as well. Coram turns to look behind him and finds that's she's still standing against the wall, face fixed. “Mrs. Spencer, if you wouldn’t mind leaving us for the moment?”
She nods without looking at him and says, “Of course, my lord,” before exiting the room.
Coram had only meant to make Avery feel that he could speak freely, but he seems to have taken Mrs. Spencer's dismissal differently, face and body drawing tight.
Apparently the only way out is through. Coram soldiers on.
“Such a big change must be stressful for you, so I'm going to attempt to explain my position and plan as clearly as I'm able.” Coram tries to keep his voice calm and his body language easy, like he might with a spooked horse. “I am not going to harm you, and the only cause I would have to punish you would be if you broke one of the Duke's or King's laws, just as I would any other person. Do you understand?”
A beat, then, “I think so, my lord.” His tone of voice does not convey confidence.
Better than nothing. “Good. Also, although I expect you to earn your keep around the house like anyone else, you will not need to earn it… on your back, so to speak. I do not wish to see you in my bedroom again.”
This goes over less easily. Avery is visibly thrown, his brow furrowed and his hands clenched tight around each other.
“Is that clear?” Coram pushes. “I prefer my privacy, and I'm sure you'd prefer not to be pawed at.”
A beat, and Avery’s face smooths out. “I understand, my lord.”
It’s nice to have that sorted. This way, there won’t be any more misunderstandings.
Coram continues. “Good. Now, you told me that you have basic schooling and can manage some household tasks. Why don't you start there? Surely you've noticed the house is a bit of a mess. Mrs. Spencer can tell you what needs to be done.”
“If that's what you wish, my lord.”
Thank goodness. Coram isn't sure what he'd have done if Avery had protested. “And once the manor has been cleaned up, I'm sure there will be plenty of other household tasks that will need your help. I've been told by a reliable source that hiring only three staff is a travesty, so you can make me a bit more respectable in polite company by acting as a fourth.”
Something flits across Avery’s face, gone too quickly to be interpreted. “Yes, my lord.”
Coram’s not sure what else there is to say, other than—”One final consideration, before you go. Why on god’s green earth aren’t you wearing any clothes?”
Bringing up the topic pulls Coram’s attention, once again, to Avery’s beauty. His face heats as he determinedly keeps his eyes above Avery’s neck.
“I wasn’t provided with anything to wear, my lord.”
“But what happened to the clothes you were wearing when we last spoke?” Coram asks.
This time, Coram catches the frustration on his face before Avery manages to cover it up. “They belonged to the Brentwood estate, my lord. Slaves are not allowed personal possessions.”
God. What a great fool he’s been. “My apologies. I didn’t—recall. Or perhaps I never knew?” Coram flushes even further, this time from mortification. “Either way, I’ll have Mrs. Spencer provide you with some of the Danby livery. There must be a few sets tucked away somewhere.”
Coram shrugs off his coat and holds it out to Avery with his good hand. "I’ll see to your clothes straightaway, but in the meantime go ahead and wear this."
Clearly shocked, Avery doesn't respond. When he doesn’t reach out to take the coat, Coram places it gently on the table in front of him.
A thought occurs. “Before I go, is there anything else I’ve missed? That someone more—familiar, let’s say—with this sort of thing would know to provide you?”
Gently, Avery runs his fingers over the fabric of the overcoat. He stares at it for a long moment before looking back up at Coram. He swallows, then says ,“A place to sleep, my lord. If I’m not to stay with you, where should I…?”
“Do you not sleep in the servant’s quarters?” Coram asks. If Avery didn’t sleep there last night, then where did he sleep?
Avery shakes his head, seemingly more willing to explain now that it’s clear Coram has no earthly idea what he’s doing. “Not typically, my lord. The servants tend to mislike it.”
After a moment of consideration, Coram finds he isn’t surprised. Even the smallest amount of power will make someone feel superior to someone else. Commissioned soldiers never like to share space with the enlisted, and many will take any excuse to throw their weight around.
Almost afraid to ask, Coram says, “Is there somewhere that slaves tend to sleep then, in a great house like this? They can’t all sleep in their master’s bed.” He tries to inject some levity into his words and winces internally when he hears how it sounds out loud.
“Outside, mostly,” Avery responds darkly. “Or in the kennels or the stables, if the weather is poor and the overseer is kind.”
“In that case,” Coram says, “You’ll just have to stay in one of the guest bedrooms.”
This is even more shocking than the coat. “My lord!” Avery says, shooting to his feet. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“I thought you were supposed to follow my orders,” Coram says mildly, but immediately backtracks when he sees the fear filtering back into Avery’s eyes. It had only just started to go away; to see it return is disheartening. “But if you’re not comfortable with that, do you have another suggestion?”
It’s a technique Coram has used successfully with his subordinates in the past. Occasionally, they genuinely have a solution he hasn’t considered.
Slowly, Avery lowers himself back down into his seat. “Perhaps I can stay in the servant’s hall for now, my lord. Since you plan to keep only a small staff, I should be able to keep out of their way.”
“A good plan.” Coram stands and pushes his chair back under the table. “Is there anything else that I’ve missed?”
Avery shakes his head, eyes wide.
“I’m glad to hear it. If something comes up, please let me know.”
With that, Coram leaves the dining room and Avery behind. His office and its piles of paperwork await.
The next several months pass rather calmly, all things considered. The cook, Mrs. Adams, and the valet, Mr. Davies, arrive and begin their work, and Mrs. Spencer and Avery are almost done with reopening the rest of Danby manor.
He has to admit, at least to himself, that Mrs. Adams is a blessing. An elderly woman, hard of hearing and slightly portly, she serves the most delicious meals that Coram has ever had the opportunity to taste. On one memorable evening, one of Coram’s new tenants came by and sold her a huge suckling pig. She roasted it whole. The resulting meal was so delightful that Coram called her up to the dining room, took her by the hand, and kissed it as dramatically as if she were a foreign princess and he her gallant prince. Coram insisted that some of it be saved for the servants’ and Avery’s dinner, and was glad to hear the next morning from an unusually talkative Mrs. Spencer that it was thoroughly enjoyed by all.
Davies, on the other hand, is a disaster. There’s nothing wrong with the boy, other than he’s young and a bit of a brownnoser, but Coram can’t help from despising his intrusive presence. It's particularly bad in the mornings, when Coram’s hand is at its worst and his mind at its most lethargic. If he's had one of his night terrors, the lack of sleep and lingering tension make Davies almost unbearable.
Although Coram has told him many times that he needs no assistance with dressing, Davies insists on trying to help at even a moment’s hesitation. It would be no issue if the boy would stick to his other duties: managing Coram’s wardrobe, ferrying letters to and from the postal service, serving at meals—according to Mrs. Spencer and Lt. Fitzwilliam, who’s visited twice now and apparently become bosom buddies with Coram’s housekeeper in the meantime, this is not exactly correct for a valet, but Davies doesn’t seem to mind—and standing around in case Coram needs a refill of his tea. But the blasted man doesn’t seem to take a hint, and Coram’s temper is dangerously frayed. He’s not certain what he’ll do or say the next time Davies offers to do up his buttons for him.
Mrs. Spencer is still rather cold with Coram, but she seems to have warmed up to Avery in the time they’ve been working together. She’s even protective of him, taking responsibility for a broken bit of glass frippery that Coram is certain he saw Avery carrying somewhere earlier in the day. She’d demanded the loss come out of her wages, and flatly lied to Coram when he’d wondered aloud if it might have been Avery’s doing.
The glass ornament is no matter to Coram, of course, but it is an interesting dynamic. Because, to him, Avery is no better than a ghost. He can count the number of times they’ve interacted on one hand, and one of those times was Avery returning Coram’s lended coat, freshly laundered. At best, he sees Avery out of the corner of his eye or hears him from around a corner. At worst, he doesn’t see hide nor hair of him for days at a time.
In the meantime, Coram himself is extraordinarily busy. He’s met with the only accountant in the town of Danby several times now, and has hired a solicitor recommended by Duke Brentwood to deal with the legalities of transferring property, title, and tenants from a long dead woman, the late Baroness Danby, to Coram: a man only recently raised into nobility and with none of the accompanying documentation or learning.
Luckily, Coram has managed to avoid any real interaction with the townsfolk or his tenants by virtue of never leaving the grounds of Danby manor. He'll have to meet them eventually, of course, but he plans to put that day off for as long as reasonably possible. He knows what they'll think of their new Baron Damby, an old crippled soldier with no manners and no knowledge of their needs or various plights. He knows what he'd think of him.
So he sticks to his paperwork and his letters, and it's while he's on the search for a very important piece of paper that he seriously crosses paths with Avery for the first time since their discussion in the dining room.
In her latest letter, the solicitor had strongly recommended he find and secure the deed to Danby manor, but it was nowhere to be found in any of the more likely spots: office, bedroom, various lockboxes. Hence Coram finds himself up in the attic, a dusty room with not enough light and copious cobwebs. He's on his third trunk of at least a dozen, digging through old clothes, sporting gear, and decor in the hopes that the deed will appear somewhere within.
The sound of the door opening makes Coram look up. His eyes meet Avery's from across the room and they stare at each other for a long moment before Avery shifts uncomfortably and looks away. “My lord,” he mutters quietly, slowly inching his way into the room. He looks good, with a healthy glow and dressed in a well fitted livery.
Coram returns his attention to the chest before he responds. “It’s good to see you,” he says mildly. “How are you settling in?”
“Well, my lord. Thank you.” Out of the corner of his eye, Coram sees Avery move deeper into the room.
“Are you looking for something up here?” Coram asks. “It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid.”
Avery kneels and opens one of the chests Coram has already perused. “Yes, my lord. Mrs. Spencer sent me to find a new set of draperies for the windows in the sitting room. The old ones are moth eaten.”
Coram chuckles. “Well, you won't find them in there. That chest is full of a child's dollies.”
With a pursed mouth, Avery pulls out one of the more disturbing dollies and surveys it. “I've never seen something quite like it,” he says, in horrified delight. “It’s positively demented.”
“If you like that one, there's another in there that looks more like a rabid pig than a babydoll,” Coram says, picturing the horrid thing and grimacing.
Avery shuffles through the chest and pulls out the pig faced doll. “This one?” He looks it in the face and giggles. “What kind of disturbed child played with these?”
It's the first time Coram has heard Avery laugh. He finds himself smiling down at his hands at the sound of it.
“Maybe they're gifts from a particularly horrid auntie,” Coram posits. “Or a deluded grandmama.”
“Particularly delightful, you mean,” Avery giggles out. For one long moment, the two grin at each other.
Then the moment is gone. Avery stiffens suddenly and looks away. “My lord.”
Coram sighs and looks back into his chest. “I'm looking for the deed to the house. Perhaps we can split the remaining chests between us, and the work will go twice as quickly.”
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly as they search through the rest of the attic. Although the mood never lightens completely, the atmosphere eventually eases into a silent camaraderie.
In the weeks following, Coram is pleased to find that Avery no longer avoids his presence.
In the fall of that year, Coram finally acquiesces to meeting his tenants. Having spoken extensively to Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Spencer about it, the plan is thus: Coram, Davies, and Avery will take a small curricle around to each of the farms, asking after the families and land as well. In the absence of a lord husband or lady wife, Davies will deliver gift baskets of sturdy wool fabric, small packets of salt, and jarred sweets. In return, he will collect the tenants’ rents. Avery will act as record keeper and note down any requests for Lord Danby, missed rent payments, new births, or deaths in the family.
The weather chills significantly in the days before their journey, leaving Coram miserable from the ache in his hand and the accompanying night terrors.
The dreams are always the same. The mud comes first, wet and thick and down Coram's throat, in his eyes, squishing between his fingers as he frantically scrabbles to push himself up and out, to get away, to breathe—and then he does, finally, one huge breath of relief. But it's not a relief, not really, because when he wipes the mud from his face he opens his eyes to the staring and stiff form of Julian—Jules, my love, no no no why is your skin so white and your eyes so red, where is your arm, where did it go, are you hiding it behind your back? You were always such a joker. Jules, god no, not you, take me instead—and then comes the pain, the grinding horrible crunch of all the little bones in his hand as the boot heel stomps and stomps and stomps and then the pain is elsewhere, through his chest, and then he's back in the mud with Jules where he belongs.
So—Coram is in a poor mood when he, Davies, and Avery set out in the carriage early one morning. Davies tried to dress him again this morning and Coram hadn't been able to stop himself from snapping, shouting at the boy to piss off and do as he's told. Chastised, Davies had fled the room and Coram had stood alone for several minutes, chest heaving in anger, before he pulled himself together enough to begin the laborious and uncomfortable process of dressing himself in a lord’s clothing.
Davies is quiet and Coram still frustrated by the time that they leave. At least the horses are calm, two steady bay geldings that Coram is well pleased by. He'll have to put a little extra money in for the local stablemaster, who they'd rented the horses from. Not for the first time, Coram considers purchasing his own horse with his new income. His old warhorse is long since retired, living out his life as a pampered stud and hopefully breeding dozens of little beauties like him.
The thought calms Coram slightly, and they begin their journey with a click of his tongue and a wave of the reins. Some tension remains, evident in how Davies keeps his head down and turned away for the first twenty minutes of the journey. Avery picks up on it too, and is completely silent and still on Coram's left.
The calm work of driving cools Coram's temper even further, and the guilt slips in behind. “Davies,” he says suddenly. “I'd like to apologize for how I spoke to you earlier. I shouldn't have lost my temper so.”
Davies peeks over at Coram, his face despondent. “But it's all my fault, m’lord! You've told me again and again not to, and I can't get it through my thick skull. My mum says I have a listening problem.” He flushes. “I promise not to do it again, m’lord.”
Coram snorts, a bit amused despite himself. “Nonetheless, there was no call to yell. Let's agree to be better to each other from now on. How about that?”
“Yes, m’lord!” Davies squeaks, sitting up straight.
“I'm glad to hear it.” Coram slaps Davies on the back, pleased. “Now let's hear more about your mum, Davies. She sounds like a smart woman.”
A bit embarrassed but young enough to not mind so badly, Davies chatters on about his mother and siblings for the rest of the drive.
Coram glances over at Avery and is stunned for a moment at the sight of him. Much relaxed from before, he has his head tilted up to the sky and a small content smile on his lips. The sun bathes him in gold light. With his hair free and swaying gently in the breeze, he's beautiful beyond measure.
Quickly, Coram looks back to the road and tries his best to ignore the line of heat up his side where Avery is pressed against him.
Eventually they arrive at the first tenant farm and proceed with their business. All goes well there, and for the rest of the tenants too: some minor concerns, a new baby, the death of a grandparent, and so on. The Duke was right about this too: the lands are very fertile, and none of the tenants have an issue paying their rent.
By the time they arrive back at Danby manor, Coram is exhausted but pleased. It was a good day’s work, and the fresh air and sunshine have done his mood and his hand a world of good.
When he suggests to Avery and Davies that they join him for an evening tea and snack, he’s surprised that they both agree. They spend the rest of the night chatting, playing chess, and laughing over stories of mischievous little siblings. Eventually they're all chased out and into their beds like little boys by a scolding Mrs. Spencer, who Coram catches laughing at them when she thinks they can't see her.
It's a good night.
Another month passes, more easily than the previous ones. Coram attends a town fair and acts as one of the judges in several contests: pie baking, sheep quality, floral arrangements, and so on. His staff and Avery attend as well, and Coram is rather pleased to be able to purchase each of them whatever treat they might want.
In a fit of foolishness, he buys Avery a primrose boutonniere and, once Avery gives his shy permission, pins it to the jacket of his livery. The yellow blooms look very fetching on him, and Coram tells him as much before fleeing the conversation with a muttered excuse about pie tastings.
As fall begins to wane and turn to winter, Coram receives a letter from Duke Brentwood that he and his family are coming to visit. The news puts Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Adams in a tizzy, and Coram is obliged to temporarily hire a kitchen girl and a young man to serve dinner along with Davies.
The Duke arrives to a bit of fanfare that Mrs. Spencer rightly insists upon. Coram stands out front of the manor with the staff and Avery lined up behind him, and is there to greet the Duke and Duchess as well as their horde of seven children ranging in age from below five to mid twenties. The Duke is quieter than his usual, likely a consequence from the long journey in a cramped carriage.
Coram escorts the Duke and Duchess to their set of rooms, letting Mrs. Spencer and Davies handle the children. Duke Brentwood claps him on the shoulder, announces him a good sort, and chivvies his wife into their rooms pronouncing that they plan on having “a well deserved bit of peace and quiet, my friend!”
Dinner is served at 6 pm sharp. At half past five, Mrs. Spencer comes and informs Coram that Avery will have to help serve dinner because “that fool of a boy you hired for tonight got himself good and sick gorging on the sweets we'd planned for tonight's dessert course, my lord.”
Coram is forced to acquiesce, though he finds the thought of Avery serving him disquieting, especially in front of the Duke. As they've come to know each other better, he finds himself thinking increasingly of giving Avery the money to buy out his contract. There could be nothing true between them as things are now, that much is abundantly clear.
Dinner is, as always, a triumph.
“Your cook has outdone herself, Danby!” the Duke proclaims, face ruddy. “Haven't they, darling?”
The Duchess responds with a distant, “Yes, dear,” staring deeply into her mostly full plate. The children clamor their agreement, the youngest signaling his approval by slamming his hands onto the table several times, producing a loud banging that makes Coram flinch internally. He's perhaps become too accustomed to the quiet of his new home.
Davies and Avery begin to serve the dessert course, a colorful mix of puddings and pastries that had cost Coram a small fortune to procure the sugar for. The children dig in before the serving is even complete with a clatter of cutlery.
Coram watches it happen in a kind of slow motion. One of the older girls is a bit too ambitious and knocks her brother’s dessert fork flying. Scowling at her, the boy sharply pushes his seat backwards to get at the fork. Avery, with a full tray of puddings, is positioned in exactly the wrong spot. The chair hits him directly in the side and he stumbles and falls. It's just a spot of bad luck, that's all, but the dread that rises in Coram as the puddings spill into the Duke's lap is heretofore only experienced in life and death situations.
Avery catches himself on one knee and seems to have escaped relatively unscathed. On the other hand, the Duke’s chest and trousers are completely coated, dripping with yellow sugary dessert.
There's a moment of utter silence. The Duke’s booming voice shatters it.
“God damnit!” he shouts, heaving himself to his feet. He towers over Avery, who stares up at him with an expression on his face that Coram realizes he hasn’t seen in months.
“Look at what you’ve done, slave,” the Duke roars, grabbing Avery by the hair and pulling him up onto his knees. “This jacket is worth more than your life!” He slaps a hand into the mess on his stomach and smears the pudding onto Avery’s face, then throws him harshly to the ground. Avery sprawls, unresisting.
Coram finds, quite suddenly, that he’s standing. His pulse pounds in his ears as he takes a sharp step towards the Duke. It takes an enormous effort to speak calmly. “I’ll pay for the jacket, your grace. It was only a small mistake. Anyone could have made it.”
The Duke’s face contorts. “It was not a small mistake, Danby. And you counsel leniency? When I’ve seen you have men flogged for less?”
The anger balloons; Coram manages to keep it trapped behind his teeth. “That was war, your grace. This is a dinner party.”
The Duke pounds his fist on the table, just as his son had only moments before. “I will not be disrespected, Danby. You will pay for the jacket, but the slave must pay as well.”
Coram glances around the room before responding. The children and Duchess are all eerily still and pale, looking anywhere but at the Duke. Only the youngest is outwardly affected, his eyes welling with tears. But even he is silent. Avery has prostrated himself on the floor, forehead flat to the wood, trembling. Davies is flat against one of the walls, gaping.
“Why don’t we discuss this in private?” Coram tries. “My valet can help you clean up and dress again, and you can join me in my sitting room.”
It’s like the Duke doesn’t hear him. “I will have my due, Danby,” he hisses, and rears back to kick Avery.
Coram moves, throwing himself between the Duke and Avery. The kick takes him in the shin, and he grunts as pain blossoms under the Duke’s booted toe.
“You will not harm him,” Coram barks, pushing into the Duke’s personal space until their faces are only inches apart. “Do not try it again, Brentwood.”
The Duke boggles at him. “All of this for a slave?” he asks, venomous. “Is he really that good at sucking your cock, or does he just remind you of Julian?”
Coram punches him in the face.
He feels the knuckles of his bad hand grind and splinter against Brentwood’s cheekbone. The agony hits, but it only serves to further enrage him. He punches Brentwood again, this time hard enough to knock him backwards into the dining table, and fists his good hand in the Duke’s lapels.
“You may be my liege lord, but you’ve gone too damned far. I fought for you for years. I served you even when it was killing me, when it did kill Jules, and I even took this god forsaken title because you asked it of me. And for what? So you can come into my house and hurt another person that I—” Coram grinds his teeth together. “A person under my protection.” He shoves the Duke into the table to make his point. “Do you understand, Charles? I will not fucking have it!”
“Get off of me,” the Duke spits, eyes beady with hate. “I won’t touch your precious slave.”
Coram gives him another shove for good measure before turning his back and crouching next to Avery. “Are you alright?” he asks, frantic.
Two bright spots of red sit high on Avery’s cheeks. “Yes,” he says, eventually. “I’m alright.”
Thank god. Coram looks to his valet, who looks liable to faint against the wall like a debutante. “Davies, come and take Avery to Mrs. Spencer, won’t you?” To Avery, he adds “She’ll clean you up, don’t worry.”
The adrenaline is beginning to wear off as Coram helps Avery to his feet and ushers him and Davies out of the room. His bad hand is a melting brand of agony, but he forces it to the back of his mind as he turns back to the Duke, who’s holding his glass of chilled water to his rapidly bruising eye.
“You can stay the night, your grace, but I suggest you and your family depart in the morning,” Coram says through his teeth.
The Duke spits on the ground. “You’ll regret this, Coram.”
Coram just gives him a hard stare in return. “Good night, your grace.”
His hand has settled into a dull throbbing that heralds days of grinding agony. Coram ignores it as best he can as he slips downstairs into the servant’s living area.
Mrs. Spencer is sitting with Avery at the large kitchen table, talking softly to him as she encourages him to take sips from his steaming teacup. Coram watches silently for a moment, taking in the utterly dear sight, before clearing his throat.
Avery jumps a little but relaxes when he sees that it’s Coram. The gesture of trust wounds as much as it soothes; Coram has made an abominable error. Mrs. Spencer looks between the two of them and then whispers a few final words into Avery’s ear, before standing and taking her leave with a quiet, “I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Avery,” Coram says, settling into the seat that Mrs. Spencer has just vacated. “Are you certain that you’re alright?”
Avery laughs, just a little. “I’m perfectly fine, my lord. This is nowhere near the worst that’s happened to me.”
The words cut deep. “I’m so sorry,” Coram says, wretchedly ashamed.
“Why would you be sorry?” Avery asks, tilting his head. “No one has ever protected me like that before. Not anyone. I’m so grateful to you, my lord.”
“No, not for that,” Coram says. “It was only right. You deserve to feel safe. But…” he trails off. If he goes through with this, Avery will almost certainly leave. What possible reason could he have to stay here, in a place where he’s been enslaved, terrified, tied up and left for hours in a man’s bedroom waiting to be assaulted?
No. If he wants to leave, that’s his right. It would only be right.
“I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to do this.” From inside his coat pocket, Coram pulls out Avery’s slave contract. It’s only one page; abominably short for a document that proclaims one person is owned by another. He places it on the table and then, next to it, places a bag full of coin.
“I’m giving you this coin,” Coram says, pushing it over to Avery. “So that you can give me half of it back to buy your freedom. The rest is yours to keep, to fund the beginning of your new life. It was wrong of me to keep you as a slave, even for a single day. I’m so sorry.” The words hurt to get out, but with each one spoken a feeling of relief rushes through Coram. This is the only way forward.
“What?” Avery asks, looking terribly fragile.
“Your freedom. You’re a free man, Avery. You can do anything, go anywhere.” It’s bittersweet to watch the joy blooming on Avery’s face. “I’ve already set it up with my solicitor. All we need to do is take the money and the contract into town tomorrow morning and have it certified. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re free from this moment forward.”
“I… I don’t know what to say, my lord. It’s—this—I never thought this could happen.” Avery speaks through a grin, tears pooling in his cheeks.
“Call me Coram, if you like.” It’s the closest he’ll get to being with Avery in truth. But to hear his name from Avery’s lips will be enough, he tells himself. It will have to be.
“Coram,” Avery whispers. “Thank you, Coram.”
“There’s no need for thanks. It was the only right thing to do.” Coram rises to his feet, his emotions threatening to become too big and overflow. There’s too much joy and grief and regret in him for one man to contain. “I’ll leave you to it then, and we can go into town in the morning. You can purchase what you need and hire a carriage to take you wherever you might want to go.” He turns to go.
“Oh, but…” Avery says, his voice suddenly weak. “Never mind, I understand.”
Coram looks back at Avery and is appalled to see how small and crumpled he’s become in the space of just a few seconds. “What is it?”
“It’s just that I thought I might stay here,” Avery says to the ground. “But I understand that you won’t want me here, another mouth to feed. It’s not like you ever needed me, really, and I know that you didn’t want me from the beginning. I’ll go, like you said.”
Coram curses that he’d ever said such a thing. Another mouth to feed? What the hell was he thinking? “No!” he barks, before gentling his tone. “Please stay, if you’d like. I thought that you wouldn’t want to. There must be many bad memories here.”
Avery smiles at Coram; it’s so beautiful that he’s helpless to do anything but smile back. Then Avery is standing and rushing into Coram’s arms, and Coram pulls him against his chest into a hug. His form is warm and soft, and Coram tries to memorize the feeling.
“Coram,” Avery says into Coram’s chest. “I’ve seen how you look at me, when you think I’m not looking back.”
Coram tries to flinch away, but Avery holds him fast. “I would never—”
“I know,” Avery interrupts. “But what if I asked you to?” He tilts his face up and looks into Coram’s eyes, his dear face soft and suffused with joy. “Will you kiss me?”
So Coram does.