Chapter Text
December 1849-May 1850
It was such a relief to finally receive a letter from Tom, and heartening to know that Tom’s silence was because things had turned out well and kept him busy with shop preparations. The holidays were undoubtably a busy time—even though Christmas had passed, James was certain Tom would find success, since—in his experience with his own family—people still flocked to the shops between Christmas and Epiphany for last-minute or belated gifts, as well as garments to refresh one’s wardrobe for the new year.
James spent the holidays with Will, returning to his new house following the turn of the year. He’d given Bridgens and Peglar leave to do what they liked—if they had family whom they wished to visit in the time James was gone, or if they would prefer to stay and treat the house as a holiday home. There were servants’ quarters in the house, but James had told Bridgens and Peglar that they could take one of the guest rooms. The house had four bedrooms, which was far too many for James. He couldn’t imagine he would be hosting more people than would fit in two rooms—even if he invited all of his dearest friends, which was honestly only Will and family and Ned Charlewood, and possibly Dundy—but he’d gone to join his family in Canada—but they’d never all visit at the same time anyway, James was sure. Four bedrooms was plenty.
James tried not to be overly anxious about letters from Tom as the winter passed. There were plenty of distractions that came with settling into a new house—it was a lovely house on the English coast, close enough to Brighton for easy visits, yet far enough away that it didn’t feel like Will was hovering, which he was wont to do—but that only did so much, though winter did turn into an exercise in discovering parts of the house that they hadn’t realized were in need of repair. Peglar had been adamant about wanting to see repairs done immediately, but James lay the ultimatum that if it involved having to do work outside it could wait until spring.
Over the course of the winter, James only received about one letter a month from Tom, each full of apologies for delays—his job had been chaos, he’d been ill, his stove had broken, and his flat had gotten too cold to write for his joints. Nothing at all James thought it necessary to apologize for, and he told Tom this.
Given what we’ve been through, I don’t think it’s any surprise at all that we’re now struggling through winter, even a winter so mild in comparison, he’d written, before sharing the struggles they’d had in his household along with his attempts at dissuading Peglar from getting up on the roof to fix a leak. It only effects the attic, and we’ve got a bucket in place, but it’s all frozen at the moment and I’m not having Peglar up on the roof in those conditions.
James tried to be patient about waiting for Tom to give him the shop address, but since the letter he’d sent James around Christmas, he’d spoken very little about the shop in any explicit terms. There were no updates on his progress cleaning up the shop, no stories about his neighbors, not a peep about customers. The only time he’d gotten a clear answer had been in response to him asking if Will and Elizabeth’s advice had proven good for the shop. Tom had told him about how he’d made some handkerchief squares from one of the fabrics Will had recommended and that he’d given his sister a parcel of spare material to makes some ladies things as he had little experience with women’s fashion.
As winter became spring—and Peglar finally got his wish to get up on the roof—James resolved to ask about the shop in plain terms. He made sure it was one query among several in a long, loving letter to ensure that Tom wouldn’t feel put on the spot about it, and sent it off. It was a waiting game after that and apparently, it was noticeable just how anxious James was about it, because two days after he sent the message, Bridgens strongly suggested that James perhaps see what he could make of the garden to take his mind off things.
This began the muddy ordeal of figuring out just what was to be done with the overgrown garden. Since James had ostensibly hired Peglar to care for the house and grounds this became a project for both of them, even though neither of them had any sort of experience maintaining a garden. To that end, James ordered several books on gardening to help their endeavor, and they began, as they waited for the books to arrive, cataloging what James could identify and pruning back the wildest brambles and anything growing where it wasn’t supposed to be, such as the stubborn weeds in the middle of the garden paths.
A month passed. The gardening books arrived and a letter from Tom did not. The garden began to look like a proper garden and, still, no letter from Tom. Two months with no reply from Tom and the garden looked excellent, but James was feeling worse than ever.
“Couldn’t you ask Captain Crozier for Jopson’s address?” Peglar asked one afternoon. He was up in a tree—they’d realized it was an apple tree, which had led to much excitement—pruning some of the branches. “Didn’t you mention he helped Thomas get the place?”
James sighed and slumped down into the dirt where he’d been busy planting the beginnings of their vegetable garden. He had thought of that, but it had seemed such an intrusion of Tom’s privacy. “I may, if I haven’t heard from him in the next few weeks,” James said. “There’s been a two-month delay in his letters before, and season changes would be a busy time for a tailor, wouldn’t they?”
Peglar shrugged. “Don’t ask me, sir.”
James waited another full month with no response from Tom before writing Crozier. Crozier had gone on an extended holiday to the Mediterranean with the Rosses when winter had set in and had only returned in March, so James wasn’t expecting him to have had much by way of ongoing correspondence with Tom, but he also wasn’t expecting the response that Crozier hadn’t heard from Thomas since the last letter he’d received at the beginning of December, right before he and the Rosses had sailed for Greece.
I haven’t visited him—I’m sure he gave you the ‘I don’t want you to see it until its perfect’ speech, but this may warrant breaking that promise. I’m due in London in a week’s time. We could meet then and pay him a visit together. His adress is ————
They met at Sir James Ross’ Pall Mall residence, where James would be staying with Crozier in lieu trying to find rooms somewhere. He arrived too late in the evening for them to embark on their visit to Tom that night, but they agreed they would start on it first thing the following morning.
In an effort to think about literally anything other than his mounting worry for Tom, James turned the conversation to Crozier’s trip with the Rosses while they ate dinner. They’d exchanged a few letters, but they had been short and, from Crozier’s end, talked more about the sights than activities embarked on.
“Well, there was much that I couldn’t write down,” Crozier admitted. “It was… It wasn’t the family trip I had assumed; the children were left with Anne’s parents…” Crozier cleared his throat. “Once we’d set out, they revealed to me that it was supposed to be a second honeymoon, since I, erm, declined to join them on their first.”
“‘Ah,” James had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It was very sweet, but also very clear why Crozier had left so many details out. “Congratulations, then.”
Crozier flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, and waved James off. “I just thought they ought to have the time to themselves, since they’d just got married and I’d had James to myself for the previous four years.”
They left it there and went to bed not long after, so anxious were they to get an early start.
The following morning, they hired a cab to take them to Tom’s street, choosing to walk the final distance to Tom’s shop.
“I didn’t expect Thomas to write while I was away,” Crozier said, “but I rather expected some notice about the shop opening when we arrived home, and it’s worrying that he’s not said anything to you, and you’ve been here all this time.”
James nodded. “He’s talked about his work, vaguely, but save the letter when he asked me to wait until he had the shop in better order…” He trailed off.
Crozier had stopped abruptly in the middle of the street and was frowning deeply at the storefront across from them. “It should be just here,” he said, gesturing to the shop, which was plainly not a tailor—it was selling teas and spices.
“Could he have given you the wrong address?” James asked, though even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t right.
As James had rather expected, Crozier shook his head. “I visited the place with him, this… it doesn’t even look the same as I remember, like the building itself has been altered.”
James eyes flicked up and down the row of shops. Tom had mentioned a book bindery and a dress shop on either side of him. While he saw no bindery, the dress maker was right where it should be.
“Why don’t you go in and ask?” James suggested. “I’ll check the neighbors. Tom mentioned getting to know the woman who runs the dress makers.”
Crozier nodded. “Yes… yes I’ll do that.”
As James entered the dress shop, he was immediately greeted by the proprietress.
“Good morning, sir!” This would be the nosy and intense Mrs. Williams, he imagined. “Looking for something for your special lady?”
“Ah, no.” James said. “I was actually rather hoping you could help me locate a different shop. A tailor shop, run by a Mr. Thomas Jopson. I’m afraid the address I was given leads to a different sort of shop entirely.”
At the first mention of Tom’s name Mrs. Willlliams’ eyes lit up. They didn’t stay lit for long, however, and her face had fallen considerably by the time James finished speaking. “I’m afraid his shop’s closed,” she said. “Has been for months.”
Months. James heart sank. “Do you recall when, exactly?”
“It was late last year. December.” Mrs. Williams sighed. “It’s not even really accurate to say it closed. Poor man never had the chance to open.”
James felt positively ill. He never even opened? Then what work had he been telling James about? Had he started over somewhere else? Without telling anyone?
“Are you a friend of Mr. Jopson’s?”
“Yes, we… we sailed together prior to my retirement from the Navy, and his own career change.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you know why he was forced to abandon the shop?”
Mrs. Williams snorted. “I do know. That bastard who owned the bindery left his lit cigarette in his workshop, where there was lots and lots of paper. The whole place went up before anyone could do anything and the shops on either side went with it. Mr. Jopson was out at the time, thankfully, but he lost everything. I nearly did as well.”
“And would you know where he’s gone?” James asked. “If he’s reopened elsewhere?”
“That I don’t know. He mentioned going to stay with a sister, but I’ve not heard from him since.” Mrs. Williams shook her head. “I wish I could help you, mister…”
“Fitzjames,” James said with a nod, intending to thank her, turn and leave, but of course she recognized his name, and it was several long minutes before he was able to extract himself from the shop.
Crozier was hovering anxiously outside when James emerged, and he started toward James as soon as he laid eyes on him. “When was the last time Thomas wrote you?” he demanded.
James had a feeling he knew what had prompted Crozier’s worry, so he answered the unspoken question instead. “Tom’s fine—well, he’s alive at least,” James said. “You learned about the fire I take it?”
Crozier let out a stuttering sigh, clearly relieved. “Yes.”
James nodded slowly. “The fire was in December. Tom wrote me twice after that.”
There was much to discuss from there. James filled Crozier in on all the details he learned, and Crozier mused on how they should proceed.
“The worst part of this is, I can’t even say this behavior is entirely unexpected,” Crozier said, as they walked, vaguely, in the direction of Ross’ house. “Thomas has always been stubborn about accepting help he can’t pay back. I’d already given him a not insignificant sum to help him start the shop, which he was adamant about paying back.”
“Has he started?” James asked.
Crozier shook his head. “No, but that’s hardly surprising given what we’ve learned. I’ve half a mind to send back anything he does send me.”
“At least we can be certain he’ll reach out to you about that eventually,” James said. “Should we pay his sister a visit? The one he’s been having letters sent too.”
“No, no, I don’t think that would be wise,” Crozier said. “Though, I would write her. She may have answers that will alleviate some concern.”
That was true, and if this, as James suspected, was the sister that Tom had gone to stay with and he was still there, he might not appreciate being dropped in on with warning—checked up on like he was a child in need of minding. That was, of course, not how it would be meant, but James thought it could easily feel that way to someone as fiercely independent as Tom. “I’ll write her before I leave London.”
James lingered in London long enough to receive a reply from “Ms. Jopson”—he’d figured it safest to address the letter that way since he didn’t rightly know which sister it was. Unfortunately, it was not the sort of letter that he and Crozier had hoped. It was… well James didn’t really know what to make of it other than finding it deeply upsetting.
Ann, the sister, assured James that Tom was fine and had found new employment. She went on to say that she sent all his mail on to his new lodgings when it came in and if Tom wasn’t replying to James, it was by his own choice. While the thought of that stung, it was her ending lines that haunted James the most.
I know this will come across as forward, but I only say this out of concern for my brother. While I can’t speak to Tom’s choices, he seemed to be under the impression that your friendship was limited in duration. If this is true, I would beg of you to leave him be and let him move on with his life. I don’t say this to be disparaging or cruel, merely out of a practicality required by my brother’s and my class and to remind you of your own.
Sincerely,
Ann Jopson
James wracked his brain trying to think what he might have said or done to give Tom the impression that there was an intended end point for their relationship. It was true that shipboard liaisons did not always last, but James had thought he’d made it clear that he wanted something more lasting if it was something Tom wanted too. Clearly, he had not done enough.
Despite Crozier’s earlier recommendation about keeping to letters and not visiting Tom’s sister, James made the decision to call on her that very day. Of course, he was not half-way there when he realized the several flaws in his plan. Firstly, he had no idea if she would be home. She worked, James knew, and as far as he was aware, she lived alone, which also brought him to point two. He was a man who would be visiting the residence of a young working-class woman, and the two of them would be left alone together. He could easily imagine the sort of gossip that might cause.
It also brought to mind the very last line of Miss Jopson’s letter, reminding James of the class disparities between himself and Tom. Had that been a factor in Tom reaching the assumption he had? Was there something important James had missed because of it? Or had Tom perhaps felt that the divide was too large to be overcome on shore?
The Arctic had been an odd experience in that regard. Rank and status had not truly been altered, but lines had been blurred due to their circumstances and environment. It made James smile as he recalled that first winter on Beechey, when Tom had come to their New Year festival in Crozier’s epaulettes. That had been a truly wonderful time.
Ultimately, he headed back to his borrowed rooms, deciding it would be best to pen another letter instead of visiting—though the walk had not been at all a waste, even though his leg hated him for it by the time he reached the house.
In this letter, James laid out, in plain terms, his intent and feelings toward and understanding of his relationship with Tom. It was a terrible risk to lay himself so fully bare like this in a letter, but currently it was the best option. As an extra precaution he asked the maid if she would deliver the letter when she went out to the market that afternoon, instead of relying on the uncertainty of the post.
Once it was off, there was nothing for James to do but sit and wait and be consumed by nerves. Nerves that were not helped when the maid returned and reported that Miss Jopson had not been at home, so she’d slipped the letter under her door.
Crozier noticed James’ nerves when they dined together that evening—Crozier had been kept out the entire day on Royal Society business, something to do with his being asked to give a lecture on magnetism later in the year. Of course his mild concern turned into more significant worry when James explained about the letter from Tom’s sister and what he’d done.
“That was incredibly foolish, James,” Crozier said, face serious. “Do you even know if she’s safe…”
“Mmm, yes that’s…” James swallowed around a mouthful of food. “That’s the one thing I’m not worried about, actually. It’s more the general reception of the letter and its contents that I’m worried about, on top of everything else.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand how I could have missed that Tom was feeling that way.”
“I don’t think you can fault yourself for that,” Crozier said gently. “Thomas has always been a master of concealing his emotions. He shows you exactly what he wants to be seen. Although… thinking back, he did say something to the effect of not thinking he could have a lasting relationship with an officer, but that was very early on, mind. By the end, you were so close, and he seemed so happy…” He shook his head. “I suppose I imagined the matter resolved.”
James could only nod. His heart ached and the knot that had grown in his stomach solidified, souring his appetite. That could explain some of the distance between them on the voyage home… James had just thought Tom was being practical. “He never said anything.”
The reply from Tom’s sister, when it came, reminded James of the notes Tom would send him on Erebus. It was short, to the point and managed to relay an intense and sharp emotion in few words. It read simply:
We need to meet to discuss this. I have Wednesdays off, reply with a time and place.
Thomas staggered into his room and collapsed on his bed without so much as stopping to take off his shoes. He was exhausted. His body ached and his head felt like it was full of fog. After a few minutes of lying prone, Thomas hauled himself upright, wincing as the action put pressure on his hands, which had been bothering him more frequently as of late, ever since he’d been moved to working with red dyes. He supposed he could take some consolation in the fact that he wasn’t working with greens; he’d seen how sick those poor girls got. Still, his hands were raw and blistered and painful rashes ran up his forearms from where he had to roll up his sleeves to work.
It was something of a relief to shuffle over to his tiny, lopsided washstand and begin his evening ablutions, which always started with washing and bandaging his arms and hands. The cool water was a balm to the burning pain, and the salve he had helped that feeling linger—though he only applied it sparingly to the worst of the open sores in an attempt to make it last.
He thought vaguely of getting something to eat as he kicked off his boots, but he really didn’t have much of an appetite… or energy to prepare anything for that matter. A coughing fit forced him to pause his undressing and he grimaced at the blood spatters that now stained the clean bandages he’d just applied to his hands. He’d been ill at the start of the year and thought little of it, as winter often brought illness, but the coughing hadn’t gone away, and when he’d started coughing blood roughly a month and a half ago, it had become rather apparent what he was suffering from.
The previous weeks had also seen him growing quite feverish, and becoming plagued with the most awful night sweats. He would wake hours before the factory whistle, drenched through his nightshirt and utterly sapped of the strength needed to get up to change himself or his sheets, but also unable to fall back asleep for the discomfort.
He wiped away any excess blood from the fabric and then finished undressing, draping his work clothes over the back of his chair. As he stood, bare to the stifling air of his apartment and trying to decide whether it was worth putting on a nightshirt to sleep in, his eyes drifted, as they always did, to the pile of letters sitting slumped on the table in the center of the room. Most were from Fitzjames, but there were also two from Crozier, and one from Armitage, all unopened.
Crozier’s remained unopened because Thomas had promised himself that he wouldn’t reply to the captain until he had enough money to warrant a suitable payment toward the loan Crozier had given him, but that was damnably difficult when his health was as poor as it was. He tried to remind himself that Crozier would care more about Thomas taking care of himself than paying him back.
His primary motivation for not opening the others was guilt, though of course that guilt only grew with each unopened letter he added to the pile. It was only that he’d rather lost the ability to make things sound all right and there were only so many excuses he could come up with about why he had no answers about the shop. There would certainly be questions from Fitzjames, and he imagined that was what the letter from Armitage was about too, as Armitage was living with Tozer as an ‘apprentice,’ and so knew about the commission for the shop signage.
The only letters he answered with any regularity were the ones from his family, so they wouldn’t worry. To his brother in particular, he made sure to respond quickly, so as to avoid a repeat performance of Will going to Crozier out of concern—and even if Thomas didn’t respond to the letters, he was grateful for Ann’s willingness to forward his mail. He’d open at least a few on Sunday, he told himself, to at least read them if not reply to them.
Sleep did not come easy to Thomas that night. His sleep was fitful and his dreams unsettling—the expedition returned but no one seemed to see him; Fitzjames sitting at the head of a table in a darkened room, smiling and laughing with people Thomas couldn’t see, and becoming overwhelmed by the sinking feeling that he shouldn’t be there; the flames that destroyed his shop transforming into the flames that consumed Carnivale… He must have fallen asleep properly at some point because, after half-sleeping most of the night, he woke suddenly to a bright room, feeling like something had woken him, but also feeling too feverish and lead-limbed to sort out what.
He listened blearily to see if it had been the whistle, but there wasn’t anything, although it seemed awfully bright outside for the whistle not to have sounded yet, but, again, his head was far too thick to think on it too hard. He had managed to doze off again when a sharp bang on the door startled him awake, and he sat up abruptly, which caused his head to spin viciously.
There were voices outside the door, and Thomas was suddenly flush with panic that he’d overslept. He tried to haul himself up and out of bed, but on top of his head spinning, his stomach protested something severely and he had to lay down again to keep anything from coming up. The knocking came again, softer this time, and Thomas forced himself up fully.
He stumbled over to his chair for his trousers. “Be right there,” he called—or tried to. His voice came out as more of croak.
There was a beat of silence as Thomas tried pull his trousers on with one hand while bracing himself on the back of the chair with his other and then, “Tom?”
Thomas tripped with one leg half in the trousers—that sounded like James. The thought that James had found him out here… it made him queasy for a whole other set of reasons. “I’ll be… I’ll be just a minute,” he choked out. Finally managing to get into his trousers properly, Thomas made his way to the door—the latch was broken, so Fitzjames could have opened it—and pulled it open.
Thomas had an apology for his disheveled appearance on the tip of his tongue, but it died on his lips as he watched Fitzjames’ face crumple at the sight of him.
“You look awful.” James reached toward him and then stopped, as though he wasn’t sure the touch would be welcome.
Thomas couldn’t think of a coherent response. It might have been funny as a greeting after not having seen each other for so many months if Thomas had felt anything other than awful.
“Tom?” Fitzjames’ brow was furrowed deeply with concern and Thomas wondered if he’d missed him saying something.
Thomas took a step back, intending to invite Fitzjames in, but the room swam all of a sudden and his vision went black. When he came to, he was sitting on the floor, leaning against James’ shoulder.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Fitzjames said gently, levering Thomas to his feet.
The world continued to spin as James helped him across the room and back to his bed. “I have to work…”
James brushed Thomas’ hair back tenderly. “You’re in no state, Tom, and…” He grimaced. “…the day’s already halfway through.”
“What?” Thomas croaked. “What time is it?”
“A bit past one.”
“Oh…” He was going to lose his job for this, not just because of his tardiness, but because, as James said, he was in no condition to work and there was no guarantee he’d manage it tomorrow either.
“Tom, I…” There was something warring in James’ face and if Tom were more coherent, he might have it in him to worry about what it was, but James shook his head. “No, it can wait. Let’s get you lying down, yeah?”
Thomas nodded, letting himself be manhandled down onto his lumpy mattress and tucked under his thin sheets.
“Is that any better?” James asked.
“Room’s not spinning anymore,” Thomas replied, letting his eyes fall shut. His head hurt less too. Of course that was when a coughing fit struck him, and he ended up curled in on himself. His chest ached and for a few terrifying moments after it was a struggle to breathe.
As Thomas grounded himself again, he became aware of Fitzjames’ hand on his back, rubbing in gentle circles. He waited for Fitzjames to say something, comment on his living situation, his job… something to drive the wedge of class between them.
“Can you sit up?” James asked. “I can get you some water.”
Thomas shook his head; he didn’t want to try—not when the dizziness had finally stopped.
James’ hand drifted over his shoulder. “What can I do?”
“Stay?” Thomas felt too miserable to try to push James away, especially not when his presence was so comforting, and it was something a relief to hear James gently murmur, “Of course.”
With Fitzjames’ gentle ministrations, Thomas eventually managed to fall back asleep, and when he woke, there was a pleasant smell of seared fish that didn’t turn his stomach the way the thought of food had the night before. He blinked his eyes open, “Did you cook?”
James startled where he was sitting at the table writing in a small book with a pencil. “Tom! Ah, no, no, that was your neighbor. She knew you’d been feeling poorly.”
Oh. That made rather more sense. Thomas levered himself up carefully and was relieved when his head didn’t spin. He still felt foggy, but the worse of it was his hands hurting and he could deal with that— his hands always hurt—though he did need to either remove the bandages entirely or at least change them, as the rough fabric was starting to chafe. He didn’t normally keep his arms bandaged during the day, because they got in the way while he was working, but he’d slept all day today.
“Are you feeling well enough to eat?” James asked.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, just give me a moment.” He hauled himself to his feet, he still felt a little wobbly, but that was fine, he could manage that. As he peeled off the bandages at the wash basin, Thomas heard James get up and begin moving things about. He caught a whiff of the fish again and his stomach growled.
Thomas wiped down his arms briefly—there wasn’t the residue on them the way there was after a day of working, but the water still felt nice, and then he grabbed the jar of salve and his last clean set of bandages before making his way to the table where James had set out supper.
There wasn’t a second chair, but James had dragged over the crate Thomas used for hauling his laundry down to the courtyard to wash to sit on. Thomas caught James frowning out of the corner of his eye as he took his seat in the actual chair.
“Tom…”
Thomas looked up properly, hearing that same frown in James’ voice.
“What happened to your hands?” James asked. He sounded horrified, and, looking down at his hands, Thomas supposed they did look quite horrible.
“It’s nothing,” Thomas said, trying to assure James. “I just reacted poorly to one of the new dyes, is all.”
James’ frown didn’t abate, “So they’re healing?”
“Well, no, not really,” Thomas admitted. “I still work with that dye every day.”
James looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit his lip and stayed quiet, and Tom began the slow process of re-wrapping his arms. He remained silent for several long minutes until Thomas had just begun eating. “I don’t want to infringe upon your independence, I know how much you value that, but I… if your work here is causing you harm… and I… I did notice that you were coughing blood earlier.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. “Well, I may not have a job come tomorrow.”
“Tom, I…” James hesitated. “I don’t think I ever said outright how much your friendship means to me. Friendship seemed like more than I could have hoped for, but…” James glanced to the wall that separated Thomas from his neighbors.
“The walls are like paper,” Thomas said, and James nodded.
“I know what your fears were, about what would happen when we returned,” James said. “I spoke to your sister, Ann. My offer of a position still stands. I know Bridgens would be glad to have an extra pair of hands about the house; most of Peglar’s work keeps him outdoors.”
Thomas took a deep breath. “No wife to run the house yet, then?” He hoped that James understood it as the cautious treading it was and not a jab.
“Marriage was never in the cards for me,” James said, “I could never have saddled a woman with my heritage, but that matters very little to me now and I am more than happy to remain a bachelor.” The ‘for you’ remained unspoken, but Thomas could feel it, and the emotions that swelled in his chest—the ones he’d been trying to shove down—made his eyes begin to water.
James began to reach for Thomas’ hand, but then stopped himself, brow furrowing, and clearly thinking of Thomas’ injured hands. Thomas sighed and finished bridging the gap between them. His hands would hurt regardless of whether he was holding James’ hand or not and, if he was being honest with himself, he would rather be holding James’ hand.
They didn’t talk much more after that, as a headache crept up on Thomas and James sent him back to bed. This time Thomas went willingly and easily. He was still worried about what tomorrow would bring, but he wasn’t alone, and James had promised a longer conversation once they had the time and sturdy walls around them.
The foreman did not seem at all displeased that Thomas was leaving—Thomas rather thought that the only reason he hadn’t been fired was because they’d beat the foreman to the conversation. He was not feeling as poorly as he had been yesterday, but he still felt miserable—and he looked it too, he realized when he caught his reflection in a window at the train station. He looked gaunt and pale, and the bags under his eyes looked rather like bruises.
Thomas didn’t sleep much on the train journey from Manchester down to Brighton—they would have to get a connecting train and then a coach to James’ house. Every time he tried to doze off, his coughing would pull him out of it. He also didn’t feel much for conversation, but he was happy to hear James talk about the house.
“I’m no doctor,” James said quietly, “But they do say that sea air is good for…”
‘Good for,’ did not mean ‘cure,’ though, and Thomas imagined James’ reticence to name the ailment meant he knew that. “It will be nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived regardless,” he said.
“There’s a room for you,” James said. “A proper room, not the servants’ quarters. Those are empty for the most part.”
“What about Bridgens and Peglar?” Thomas asked.
“They share a room,” James said. “There are four bedrooms—it’s a larger house than I can comfortably live in on my own, but it came at no expense besides maintenance, and there’s room for dear friends.”
James followed through on taking Thomas’ hand this time, and Thomas gave him a tired smile.
It was late when they finally arrived at James’ house, and Thomas felt dead on his feet. It was that queasy exhaustion that had struck him the night before James had shown up, and he had to be helped up the stairs and into the bedroom.
“Can you manage a bath?” James asked, and even though Thomas really wasn’t sure, he nodded.
He had the thought that he’d fall asleep in the middle of wiping himself down, when he realized that James hadn’t been referring to a sponge bath at all. James had left and returned with a wooden tub and Peglar wasn’t long after with heated water from the kitchen.
“It’s good to see you, Tom,” Peglar said in greeting.
Thomas stumbled through a similar greeting before apologizing and trying to assure that he’d be better at conversation tomorrow.
Peglar brushed it off, however, telling Thomas to take his time and rest, before disappearing to the kitchen to get more water.
Once the bath was full, Peglar took his leave and James helped Thomas to his feet. “Do you need help getting undressed?”
Thomas shook his head. “I think I can manage.”
“Right.” James nodded. “I’ll get you a clean nightshirt, you can leave your clothes in a pile, and we’ll get them laundered.” Then he disappeared again.
Thomas’ hands were trembling as he slowly—out of necessity—removed his clothes and then the bandages from around his arms. He was stiff and sore, and just the idea of getting to sit in a hot bath was enticing. The hot water did sear at his arms, but after a few minutes it became tolerable, and Thomas eased himself back. He really could fall asleep like this, he thought.
He was in the midst of trying to convince his tired body to pick up the washcloth that had been draped over the edge of the tub so he could start washing himself when James re-entered carrying the promised night shirt and also a bar of soap. Thomas blinked up at him blearily.
“Are you all right?” James asked. The worry on James face had been an almost constant presence since he’d first arrived at Thomas’ lodgings yesterday.
Thomas nodded. “Just tired. Water feels nice.”
That wrung a strained smile out of James, which made Thomas smile in turn. “Shall I help you wash?”
“You don’t have to,” Thomas murmured.
“I know,” James smiled again softly, kneeling down on the floor next to the tub, “but I want to. Will you let me?”
Nodding once more, Thomas watched through lidded eyes as James settled on the floor, setting the nightshirt aside and rolling up his sleeves before wetting the washcloth and beginning to lather it with soap. The soap smelled sweet and fragrant—nice soap, probably James’… He almost protested, but then James brought the cloth to rub at his aching shoulders, and, instead, he sighed as tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding released, and he sunk a bit further into the bath.
As Thomas suspected, the soothing movements of James’ hands combined with the comfortable warmth of the water saw him drifting toward sleep very quickly, the relief from tension and some of his pain being more than enough to pull him under.
He was dragged out of his doze by James’ hand tapping softly on his cheek.
“Do you want to wash your hair?” James asked.
Thomas did, very much so, and he dunked his head quickly under the water which had gone cloudy. However, even holding his breath for the few moments it took to wet his hair aggravated his lungs and set him coughing terribly when he emerged.
James hovered, anxious, until Thomas’ wet coughing subsided, and then dabbed the washcloth to clear away the blood that lingered on his lips.
“’s a bit like how we met, isn’t it,” Thomas murmured, shutting his eyes as James began to lather soap into his hair.
James hands stilled a moment before they picked up their motions again. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? Though, I don’t know… I don’t know that I like the circumstances of this any better.”
“I think that’s when I started falling for you,” Thomas admitted. “I thought you were the sweetest man I’d ever met.”
James made a flustered noise and Thomas allowed himself a small smile. There was silence, then a huff, and then James withdrew his hands from Thomas’ hair to guide his head until it was tilted back. “I was most struck by your eyes,” James said. “I thought you were stunning, even as banged up as you were, and then you proved to be just as wonderful as I’d imagined you to be when we met again.”
Thomas held still as James poured water over his hair to wash out the soap and waited to speak again until James gave him the all-clear. He blinked his eyes open slowly. “Where do we go from here?”
“From here?” James got to his feet and offered his hands to Thomas. “From here, we get you into bed and then take things one step at a time.”
Thomas felt more alert after the bath, though his exhaustion had by no means gone away, and he was able to slip—without assistance—into James’ nightshirt, which was wonderful and soft, and then climbed into the bed, which was also very soft. A coughing fit struck as he was settling in, and James fetched a handkerchief for him to cough into, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he handed the cloth over to Thomas.
“Don’t worry if you get blood on the shirt,” James said easily, as if he knew exactly what worries were bubbling up in Thomas’ mind. “Is there anything else you need? Should I get new bandages for your arms?”
“I think they’ll be all right,” Thomas said. He lifted a hand. The blisters and sores were beginning to scab properly after two days of not re-aggravating them. “I’ll put the salve on them again tomorrow.”
“Or I can.” James worried his lip. “I… I love you, Tom, and I want to see you well. You took care of me when I was on death’s door—let me return that favor now.”
Thomas’ eyes welled with tears that started spilling over before James had even finished speaking. He had thought about loving James, but he’d never allowed himself to think about James loving him. It didn’t seem realistic, because love would have implied that he would get to keep James.
James brushed a tear away from Thomas’ eye, making a sob fall out of his throat and James’ brow furrowed immediately.
Thomas shook his head even as the tears kept coming, trying to stop James before he got too worried. “I’m fine, I’m all right,” he choked out. “It’s just a lot.”
James nodded slowly. “It’s been a long day. I ought to let you sleep. Do… you’re sure there’s nothing I can get you? Laudanum might help you sleep.”
“No.” Thomas’ response was immediate and sharp. He’d refused laudanum on the journey home, and he wouldn’t start now, no matter how bad the pain got or how much better he’d feel if he could sleep through the night without waking for coughing fits. “No laudanum.”
“All right… but if you change your mind…”
“I won’t. I…” Thomas swallowed. “I’ve never told you about my mother have I…”
James shook his head. “Only your father.”
“My mother had an accident; her hand was crushed…”
He paused and, in that space, James filled in the blank Thomas had left. “She became addicted.”
“It was the only thing that made her happy. I tried to help her come off it…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “She died just a few weeks before you and I met.”
Thomas felt James’ hand flex against his arm and then land on his shoulder to squeeze lightly. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I…” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
Thomas tried to bring his hand up to squeeze James’ arm, but his exhaustion combined with the fact that he was lying down now, was becoming too much. “Thank you.”
“Get some rest,” James said, leaning forward to press a kiss to Thomas’ forehead. “I’m just across the hall if you need anything.”
Thomas wanted to ask James to stay, but he was already being pulled under and soon enough he was out like a light.