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Long life, leisure suited James. A certain amount of excess: reclining on the sofa, with Francis. Hot cocoa. Dreams and warmth – long, easy slumbers.
He had a kind of routine, here, in their shared rooms, their retired bachelors’ abode. He kissed Francis in the mornings, suggested they take a stroll. Kissed him delicately, entirely chastely, on the tip of the nose.
This was the only intimacy allowed: but James was subtle, with intimacies: he knew how to solidify them, stretch them out, make them last. So, he kissed Francis in the mornings and suggested that they take a walk.
“It’s a nice day,” he would say, “and balmy out.” Or: “My legs could use the exercise.”. Or: “It would do you good.”
Both of them, now rather plump gentlemen, leaned on each other as they strolled down the street. James supposed he was tending towards ease, tending towards levity. Ambition, pride, lust, that much despised vanity… they sometimes strolled into his mind. Not for long, though, not for long, he told himself, leaning into Francis.
If, sometimes, he prickled for more – for that past life command, adventure, the high open seas; sometimes, when his pride was really galling him for exploration, discovery... Well, he poked at his wound and said vanity, vanity. He poked at his wound and went looking for Francis.
He kissed Francis again before they went to bed. Pressed his lips to his cheek. Every night, like this. Kissed him on the cheek, felt the stubble there. Francis smiled, indistinctly. Clapped James about the back and disappeared, off to his room.
And if James wanted more, if he remembered other goodnight kisses, other loves, in stranger locales on distant shores – well, then that, too, was vanity. That, too, needed to be swept aside. He had a stable good and virtuous life here. And brothers kiss each other. Kissed chastely.
James smiled, laughed, talked politely. Attended to his engagements, to the business of their little household. And James ached. And James pounded himself to the thought of Francis, Francis in the early hours of the morning and James turned and smothered his face into the pillow thinking you wonton, lustful, little idiot. And came downstairs the next morning to kiss Francis, chastely, on the nose, the forehead, on the cheek.
And how he loved each individual part of Francis, these extremities, how he adored them. The red blush of his cheek, warm against James’ lips. His nose, screwed up and catlike, broad and familiar. That arch of his eyebrow – eminently kissable. And James, each morning, reserving himself to just one, for chastity’s sake. In the name of brotherhood. That Francis would continue to smile and squeeze his hand as he folded down the newspaper. That Francis would continue to say, “Here, James, coffee for you – have it while its warm.”
And James was happy, really happy. Close to Francis, exposed in a way he had never been to anyone. Certainly not those old forgotten lovers who bore their cocks and arses to him – no.
“You are dear to me, James, dear to me,” Francis would say, occasionally, looking up from his correspondence, or over a cup of tea. He would say it quietly. As if bewildered.
They walked, arm in arm together about London each morning. Spoke, earnestly and deeply.
Francis spoke about his life, about his father, about Sophia – and then, in time, about the Expedition, the Arctic, the many dead men. About James himself, so close to dying – about the terror his debility had instilled in Francis. All this, with his arm over James’, leaning into him. And who was James, in the face of such openness, such honesty – such real and god-honest love – to think of sin?
So, James held Francis’ hand, he said he understood, he made his own disclosures, about his own childhood wants, fears, solitudes – honest, humiliating, and deeply felt. And supposed this was the great triumph of his life, this closeness, brotherhood. It was vain, dangerous, even, to lie at night and pound himself and ponder more.
Back before the expedition, back when he was still a sailor, still a young and active man, still vain, ambitious – wanting – London had been a blip to James. He had only ever visited intermittently – but, to a sailor with a certain inclination, intermittently is well enough. James knew its hidden corners well.
This bathroom, for instance, or that pub. Known meeting places for men of James’ sort. The stretch out by the Heath, good God. That, that vanity, he held back from Francis still.
But James sensed it, that under city, as he walked with Francis about the city.
The old molly house he and George Barrow used to frequent, years earlier. He knew where it stood. Had good memories of it. Of sex, yes, of the thrill of the chase, the sudden frisson. But also of the camaraderie, the jokes, the rituals of it. He passed the turnoff, sometimes, with Francis, when on their strolls. Leaning into each other.
And if James missed it sometimes… Well, what was there to miss? He was a different man now, less capable, he was sure. Wounds twice-opened, poor sight, half starved. What place did he have in a molly house? What would those men – beautiful men, yes, but frivolous, vain, incautious – what could they possibly make of James Fitzjames, a Captain now?
Besides, he had true, honest companionship, now. He had Francis – his brother, his own North star. He must not sully that. He must continue with only the close proximity of friendship. And so, he kissed Francis in the mornings, on the forehead or on the cheek, and contented himself. Dropped his gaze when they passed the old molly house.
It was when Francis had been talking, very candidly, about his childhood – his father and his great fear of the beatings – that James began to feel those stabs of guilt that follow deceit.
Francis trusts me, James thought, and not for the first time. This good, kind, honest man trusts me, and he doesn’t even know what dimension of man I am.
“I was so ashamed,” Francis said, as they turned about the park.
Walks were good for Francis, good for getting him to talk, to speak about what was troubling him. This was one of the many things their cohabitation had taught James.
“I was so frightened and so ashamed of being frightened. All these great welts on me. I hated to take off my clothes. It is hard to get across – the feeling of it. Of that shame.”
“I understand a little,” said James.
Francis nodded. “Of course you do.”
He turned, and looked at James directly – with such openness, such sweetness and candour, James felt he might be looking at his God.
“Not just – not just the matter of my birth. I’ve told you a little about George Barrow. The rather base matter I settled for him. I know a lot about base matters, Francis.”
Francis squeezed his arm.
“It was a kind of whorehouse, in Singapore,” James said. “Vile place, really. I’ve never paid for it myself but – you see… It was a whorehouse for men, Francis.”
Francis’ nose crinkled. “Well, aren’t they all?”
“No, I mean the customers and the merchandise both.”
“Ah,”
“Indeed.”
“I never took George Barrow for the sort.”
“I’m not sure you’re wholly understanding me, Francis.”
“I understand you, James.”
Francis pulled his arm away – gave James a second to think he was abandoned, rejected entirely, and then sat down on a bench. Gestured for James to sit besides him. The park continued in its liveliness – ducks and their children flapped about the ponds.
“You know, I’ve had men lashed for such things. Aboard ships.”
“I remember well.”
“I knew it was a base matter, of course,” said Francis. “You told me that yourself. But it is hard to imagine. For me to imagine.”
“There are base matters and base matters.”
“James,” said Francis, and the man really was blushing. “I’m not sure, I don’t know what to make of all this.”
“I – I don’t expect you to Francis. I only want – I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I want you to know me.”
“I know you, James.”
“It’s funny, really – the sodomitical urge being the rock I’ve built my career upon. And I see where that career has left me.” He gestured to his cane. “All my debilities – maybe it’s fitting.”
Francis sighed. He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the ducks.
“But it’s odd – I felt the heroic urge for George. The same way I felt on the ships – firing on the Tuunbaq. The same way I felt, God, I must have told you this story, years ago, when I jumped in some godforsaken river to save a stranger. It was a good turn, towards George. Good to play the hero for him.”
“Hard to imagine it. Heroics among – forgive me, James.”
“No, it’s all alright.”
“You said yourself it was a vile place.”
“I did, didn’t I? They aren’t all. There are several in London that feel – almost homely, to me. Places where men meet. There’s music sometimes, drink, cheer to be had.”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“I suppose it’s an awful thing, really. You are kind not to –” James affected a little laugh. “Not to throw me out.”
Francis grunted. “No chance of that,” he said, after a pause. “No matter what you’d done, James.”
They sat in silence for a while, watched the ducks playing and the sun setting in the sky; until it began to darken, and James shivered, and Francis helped him to his feet, and they made their way home again.
James slept fitfully, woke up to Francis at the breakfast table, in his usual place. He poured James his coffee as if nothing was odd. Spoke about what was in the paper, his plans for the day.
It was only his eye contact which was off. His blue eyes, averted.
“Are you up for a stroll?” said Francis. Hesitant, for once.
James hesitated too. To take his arm or not to take his arm. He wouldn’t want to seem – proprietary. But he was still, in some ways, infirm. He wouldn’t want to fall.
“Of course,” he said. “Why not?”
And Francis’ eyes caught him, then – and he thought he might continue what he couldn’t say the night before – tell Francis more of his inversion; of how it pertained to Francis – the current direction of his unseemly lusts. But Francis dropped his gaze again, and James grabbed hold of his arm, and they walked, together, out onto London’s streets, out through Regent’s Park, its green, its pleasant trees.
They were near the end of their usual route when Francis said, “I would like to see these places you speak of, James.”
“The – you mean the molly houses? You wouldn’t like them, Francis.”
“Nonetheless.”
Francis paused. James looked resolutely ahead. Pigeons, broad and fat, were settling in the trees, unbalanced.
“I wish to – to know you fully James. To understand.”
James passed a hand over his face. “Very well,” he said. “Not now. They won’t be open this time of day. Tonight.”
It was a familiar walk, and they made it quietly. They made it carefully, walking a little slower in the dark – James’ sight was not what it had been.
If Francis was surprised to find this sodomites underworld just off their usual walking path, he made no mention of it. He remained silent, contemplative – his mouth set firmly, as it had been on their final, more fatal Arctic walk. He allowed James to lead him.
The street the molly house sat under remained quiet, the door, on the third floor, above a closed chemist’s shop, as subtle as ever. But there was a gentle hum of noise, even from the street. Taxicabs, pulling up, men and tall women, making their way forwards, making their way in.
James nodded to the doorman, ushered Francis inside.
It was dark, of course – the windows blocked off, the outside world guarded against. The faint light of candles illuminated the place, casting it ruddy and warm.
“I wasn’t expecting – so many of them,” murmured Francis.
“No,” said James, “Me neither.”
By bad luck, happenstance, it was a special night in the molly house.
Busier than James had ever known it to be. Men, all dressed up, wearing gowns, wearing makeup; speaking in that slant London code James himself never stayed put long enough to get the hang of. A young woman with short hair and a suit, sitting on the harpsichord. Flowers, on the tables, and against the walls; and a white arch, ceremonial, by the bar.
It was a wedding, of all things.
An imposter ritual. Lewd, certainly, and likely to be boisterous. James flushed to think of it. Flushed to think of what Francis, a longtime aspirant to holy matrimony, might make of it.
“This isn’t,” he whispered to Francis, “How it usually is. Usually it is just men talking, drinking, a little rough trade. Or that’s how it used to be”
“Right,” said Francis. He was rather pale. His eyebrow outdoing itself. “I see.”
James sat them both down at a table, discrete and by the wall; he turned down the drinks offered rather vehemently, caught Francis looking at him, almost softly (well, it must have been with pity), as he said, “No, no thank you please, just water, if you have some.”
In the centre of the room, two men, both large, both burly, one dressed in a suit, the other in a splendid white dress – grander than at any Christian wedding James had been to.
“That’s something,” said Francis. His voice low, almost cracked.
“It is. You know, I have – I’ve dressed up myself,” said James, looking at a young boy, pouting in a ballgown, thinking I am no different to these men, Francis, what you see in them you see in me. Continuing his confession. “Taken the woman’s part, as such.”
“James, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve married.”
“Good lord, no,” said James. “Only the costume. Of course.”
Francis nodded, gripped at the table. “I see,” he said. He kept his gaze ahead, at the wedding ritual.
The wedding guests were gathering around the betrothed now, bearing flowers, bearing rice to throw grasping for drinks and at pipes, starting to dance and cheer and mince, rather lewdly.
“A woman’s dress is not so unusual.” said Francis. “Happens aboard ships. In plays and so on.”
A dance started up, the men grabbing each other, twisting to the music.
“Yes,” said James. “I know.”
“Christ, even James Clark Ross has done that.”
“He has?”
A mock-priest, dressed all in red, lipstick smeared about his face like a whore stepped forth from the crowd to bless the couple. He spattered perfume – what kind James couldn’t tell – over the couple, intoned some poetry.
“On Terror, when we were in Antarctica, aye.” Francis continued. He seemed to steady himself, relaying this. “Ross – in a high frock. Not unlike – well. I danced with him. Not so different from this, either. On the ship, that was.”
“I suppose it is commonly done.”
The two men grasped hands, looked at each other. God, James could hardly bear it – usually there was a note of parody to these rituals, but the damn thing was off, was almost earnest.
“It is James. All good fun.”
The ceremony ended. The two men grasped at each other, kissed, the bride dipping the groom. Francis, next to him, gave a high little gasp, almost a whimper. Drinks were poured out, a stomping started on the floor, the lipsticked priest raising a toast, and spinning about in his long vermillion frock, his high starch collar.
“Would you like to leave?” said James. “I think you have a sense of it. There are more charged – which is to say, more suggestive agreements happening if you care to look around. But you need not dirty yourself with the details. I’m sure you have a sense of it.”
“I do,” said Francis. He rose to his feet. Did not notice, James prayed, the young boy in the ballgown eyeing him up.
James led him out, down the stairs. Ignored the doorman, calling out “Leaving so soon, gents?” with that friendly, that overfamiliar cackle. Prayed that Francis would not know his meaning.
“It is a devil’s mockery, Francis.”
Francis looked surprised. “I’m not so sure, James. I’m not sure about that at all.”
They did not hold each other’s arms on the walk home, though James was uncertain of his footing in the dark, in the dwindling lamplight.
He walked apart from Francis, though the houses and the trees, so familiar by daylight, may as well have been the Arctic wastes for his eyesight in the dark. But he kept pace, kept his dignity, kept upright. He listened for Francis’ footsteps. He did not stumble.
Francis unlocked the door, let them both into the apartment. Shut the door behind them, careful not to let it slam. There was a candle burning by the entrance. The rest of the flat sat in darkness.
“I see a kind of continuity,” said Francis, as James went to stoke the fire in the front room. “In them. In you. You kiss me, sometimes.”
“Do I?” said James.
His voice sounded false, even to his own ears. That old blanket of pretence, false confidence. The bluster with which he worked his way up through the navy. God, did he hate himself, sometimes.
“You know you do.”
James stopped, gazed into the fire. He remained kneeling down, though it was well lit, warm and burning.
“I’m sorry for it, Francis,” he said. The embers were hot, almost uncomfortable against his face. “I’m truly sorry. I want – your care. And your brotherhood. I shouldn’t have let you – I knew of my own inclinations, and I shouldn’t have misled you –”
He was cut off – a hand on his shoulder, pulling him up. Rough and strong, as it had been on the haul.
Francis’ arms around him and then – Francis’ mouth on his. Warm, now, and open. The intrusion of his tongue, wet and heavy, the taste of him, the smell, and the feel. His arms roaming over James’ over his back, comforting and enveloping and warm.
“Francis,” he said. A whimper in response, and Francis drew back, rested his forehead against James’. Then, sharper: “Francis!” and Francis pulled away, shaking.
“Francis, are you alright?”
Francis shook his head. “I’m all unsteady, James. I don’t know where I stand.”
“Come,” said James. “Come sit down. Calm yourself Francis. I didn’t show you to – I have no intention of corrupting you, I can promise you that.”
“The two men – married.”
“I know. I did warn you, Francis. I said it might be a shock.”
“I hardly knew such a thing was possible.”
“It isn’t. It isn’t possible.”
“But there –”
“They are foolish men. Vain men, Francis. Like me. Men with pretentions to a society which will never, which can never be. That is what I wanted to show you. The – the folly of my past ways. The full folly of it.”
There was a long pause. He could hear Francis breathing, could see his own saliva, smeared about Francis’ mouth. Resisted the urge to wipe it off.
“I certainly didn’t mean to implicate you Francis. Or to – to make you kiss me. I understand. I know you understand the full meaning behind my affection for you, and I –”
“I don’t think you’re right, James.”
James blinked. “About my own meanings?”
“About folly. I don’t think those men were fools. There’s some foolishness, certainly in the risks undertaken. But –” He seemed to stumble again, glanced off to the side. “It is a kinder exploration, is it not?”
“What?”
“The folly of – communion. A better frontier, no?”
“Francis, you can hardly mean what you are saying.”
“Can’t I? Why can’t I, James?”
“This sort of life – this way of being – it is not for you. Do you not know how rare you are, Francis? To lead us out of hell. To pull us all through – through the march, through the court martial. Through all the little injuries of life. You are a good man, a kind man. Distinguished. A fine captain, a respectable –”
“Are you not all the same, James?”
“I am an invert and a bastard. A vainglorious, lying pervert. I hold it well, bit – I am no person of virtue.”
“No, James. No. I don’t think you have it right at all.”
James laughed and was surprised at the cruelty in it.
“No, James. Those men were kind to us, were they not? They welcomed us in, offered us drinks, offered us company? I do not see – there is no use for such harshness, James. I thought we had both put all that behind us, no?”
“You can’t really be defending inverts to me.”
“I would defend you to anyone, James. You are my brother.”
More than God loves them, James thought, and not for the first time. He laughed again, softer.
“Christ, I’m tired, Francis. Let’s to bed.”
The next morning, James came down to breakfast carefully, a little gingerly. Creeping, as did not befit a man of his age and station.
Francis sat, as usual, at the breakfast table. When James came in through the door, he stood, his blue eyes gleaming, and kissed James, resolutely, on the cheek.
“So, we are friends again?” said James. Francis nodded.
They walked, again, after breakfast. Leaned on each other, as they usually did.
And if Francis was quieter than normal – well, James let him ruminate. Enjoyed the scent of him, the feel of him, while he still had it here, still had it close. A circuit about the park, and then home. In through that familiar door, to their familiar set of rooms.
They settled down in front of the fire. Their armchairs, their heavy curtains – warm and familiar.
James stood, sorted through the post. A letter from Graham, a letter from his brother.
Francis leaned into him, crowded him: kissed him, again, on the mouth.
“Do you not want it?” he asked James. “That is the sense you’ve given me. Kissing me. Showing me your establishments. I thought this was what you wanted.”
“Why – Of course I want it.”
“Then you ought to have it.”
James laughed. Rubbed his hand up and down Francis’ arm, steadying him. “As simple as that?”
“Well, why not?”
And James could think of a hundred reasons, a thousand reasons – the laws and the risks, his body and his weaknesses, his vanity, the need for secrecy – and found he did not care about those, he did not care at all.
He ran his hands down the sides of Francis’ face, through Francis’ hair, and kissed him, deeply, and kissed him again.
“James,” said Francis, later, as they laid next to each other, naked and sweating on James’ sheets. “I’m afraid I don’t know the proper process – the proper form.”
“Process for what, Francis? You needn’t fret. You’re lovely – lovely like this.”
“I want to do right by you, James.”
“You’re doing just fine, I can promise you.”
“Then we shall marry?” said Francis, voice cracking.
James laughed. “Marry!”
“Like those men – like in the molly house.”
“Oh Francis, that is hardly the norm. Most just live in sin. I mean, so to speak. Christ, any form of companionship is hard to come by in these situations.”
Francis blushed, began to splutter. “Do you not want – you mean you don’t want –”
And James was a fool again – a fool and a reprobate and ready to correct it at once.
“Oh, darling,” he said, reaching out, pressing unchaste kisses onto Francis’ neck and back, his cheeks, his forehead, his nose and lips, the cleft of his chin. “Of course, I want it – of course I do. Christ – if you want it, we can have it all, we’ll work it out, we’ll have a wedding, Francis.”