Chapter Text
May 15, 1852
Dear Alison,
Have you read Les trois mousquetaires? I would not be surprised if you answered no; it’s one of those stories of heroes in cloaks and swords in Western Europe that bore you; but neither would I be surprised if you answered yes. Anyway, the friendship that unites the trois mousquetaires is similar to the one I have with my friends. The only detail that differs is that I would have the title of a fourth musketeer.
I have understood that it is inevitable for human nature, when an individual finds himself continually living in a closed group, that he will be drawn to spend time with the other individual who is most like him. That is not a different case among us. There's Benjamin and George, and then there's Louis and me.
Perhaps similar is not the right term, because what interests me most about Louis are his thoughts or behaviours that are different from my own. There are days when I try to copy some aspect of his personality, to analyse how it suits me and how well I am able to replicate it. When I tell the jokes Louis would tell, or when I smile in that peculiar way he does, or when I take the pauses between sentences as I speak, Louis doesn't seem to notice. Does he think we are similar individuals? Or is he also fascinated by all those differences between the two of us?
His physique is another detail that is very discerning from mine. My head has a rounder shape, while Louis's is long and thin with sharp bones that stand out against the skin. His hair is straight while mine is curly. His hands are smaller than mine. Facial hair is beginning to show in his moustache and cheeks, though unkempt and unaesthetic in appearance by standards, which is why I rarely notice it because I assume he continually shaves, and I have no clue when it will start to appear in myself.
Since school started we have been meeting in the recreation rooms in the afternoons and there Louis teaches me to play chess. He spends a great deal of time in the library and every time I see a medical title in his hands, I reaffirm my theory of his desire to be a doctor like our father.
Louis once asked me what I wanted to study at university and I didn't know what to say. Nothing convinces me. Our father's career involves being in contact with diseases, organs, blood and more bodily fluids. Business involves a lot of numbers. I do not have the skills and strength for law - standing in the middle of a room and acting like I'm completely convinced I'm right and being able to defend as if I'm defending my own life, I feel like I could burst into tears if I had to be in that position. The other careers are not even worth mentioning. When you read this, Alison, omit all details to our father about these intimate views I am sharing with you. He would be so disappointed in me.
Louis has the same problem, you might say. His father wants him to study something to do with politics and he despises anything to do with it; he and Harvey do.
We haven't discussed again the theory I mentioned a couple of letters ago that Harvey might be that prospect who was planned to be presented to you at The Great Exhibition. Louis always shies away from the subject when I bring it up, so I'm sorry I haven't heard anything about it. Although, I'm guessing, by the time you read this it will probably all be cleared up and resolved. This will be like reading a book that froze a sighting into the past.
With the greatest of affection,
Harry
…
May 25, 1852
Today Timothée has provoked in me the most desperate and angry feelings I have experienced in some time. Is it a competition he seeks to win against himself? How insufferable, unreasoning and jealous can he be?
Timothée has warned me again that I don't want to be in Louis' company, yet he won't tell me the reasons why I should listen to him, which makes the situation more frustrating. I have concluded that he is simply jealous of him. It has come to my attention that Louis’ father has won the election for mayor, which must be the reason for all this repulsive behaviour in Timothée. It even distresses me to think about it. He, who is so involved in the political turmoil, being the son of the vicar and watching Louis, showing not the slightest interest in his father's profession, having the good fortune to be the son of the mayor. Though I am sure there is more depth to it. Mr Tomlinson's proposals must not please Timothée or something.
The occasions when our friendship is rekindled is when he comes to me for advice on how to write a reply to the lady we met last summer in Manchester, Miss Bridget Barrow. I like to think that it is his infatuation with her that will warm his heart and make him more likely not to judge, even his own friends, with the strong prejudices he has held since I have known him.
…
Alison,
I have so many things to tell you. My chest hurts from having to endure them for hours while I lay in my bed, with no will to motivate me to get up.
By the time I write this to you, you must already know. I can't imagine how heartbroken you must be. Even if you didn't know him, I'm sure I'm right when I say you formed such a picture of him that it must be heartbreaking to know that he is no longer with us. That has also been the case with me.
It’s most selfish of me to say that in this letter I will not say much about Harvey Tomlinson's death. Yes, it is one of the reasons for my heartbreak. But not the main one.
We had met shortly after our classes ended. I should have warned him when he first asked me to accompany him to the office to pick up the monthly letters his family sent him. We went to my bedroom. Louis sat on the floor and I lay face down on the bed, my elbow resting on my chin as I continued to talk to Louis.
I miss the casualness of my emotions in that memory. In that past I possess everything I crave most now, what more miserable feeling is there? It's selfishness, I realise as I write. I'm sorry.
Louis grabbed a pencil that was on my desk to remove the stamp from the letter. I don't even remember what I was saying to him. It must have been immature stupidity, characteristic of myself. I paid no attention to Louis' expression as he read the contents of the letter. I continued to babble nonsensically, with that smile that, given the chance, I would slap off my face and put my attention where it really belonged. And I didn't, Alison. It was too late by the time I looked at Louis. I don't know why I hadn't noticed him before. I had scolded myself so many times in the days before that I shouldn't look at him so much, and I don't know why on the one occasion I should have done it I didn't.
I hate the memory of my voice. Did something happen? I had asked him. Louis' figure was frozen. His fingers held the edges of the sheet of paper. I could see through the thinness of the sheet that it had writing all over it; no pauses. His expression epitomised the inspiration for a statue, part of a Greek tragedy.
He told me that Harvey had passed away the night before. The memory of his voice enunciating that sentence, however, remains a blur in my mind. Did he mumble it? Did he say it in terrible grief? In unease? In a daze? In the onset of a trauma?
I kept silent, because I didn't know what else to do. My first assumption was that Louis wanted my silence. Then, as it continued to stretch and become so noticeable in the air that I couldn't even breathe, I guessed that maybe the right thing to do was to move closer. Before I could get off the bed, Louis stood up, dropping the letter to the floor like the feather of a dead bird descending from the sky, and headed for the door.
You don't have to go, I said, pausing much longer between words and lengthening them because I was in a momentary purgatory, swaying on how I should act. Louis listened to me. I noticed his shoulders shifting and the sound of his breathing becoming more evident. He turned slowly and I could see the trembling of his slightly parted lips, breathing through the small opening; his chest heaving beneath all the layers of clothing; and the way his eyes, their whiteness slowly turning to shades of red, shied away from my gaze. A lump formed in my throat, and even now as I capture that memory on paper I continue to hold it. Tears run down narrating the following.
Louis collapsed on the bed. Shoulders slumped in an exhalation equivalent to being punched in the stomach.
Harvey, he said, looking down at his trembling hands. On his fingers was a ring whose whiteness I was surprised to notice. I thought I'd never seen a ring that white before. Louis turned to look at me, as if guessing the course of my thoughts, and I honestly expected him to reproach me for them. I deserved no less. Harry, what am I going to do? he asked, slurring his syllables. My expression probably consisted of pale skin, framing a frown and eyes wide in panic, gaping, searching for an answer that might take us back a couple of minutes.
This is where I go out on a limb with descriptions of the facts. I wish the intent of my words were not as exaggerated or intense as I only think I can put them down on paper. I felt a weight against my shoulder. My heart is starting to beat faster and my hands are shaking, Alison. Am I capable of a heart attack? I felt Louis' warm breath against my neck; the tip of his nose brushing against the muscles of my shoulder. He kept mumbling my name, or maybe it was his brother's name. Sounds faded easily as the only sound I could hear was the sound of my blood pounding against my ears.
I called his name quietly. To which he replied that I didn't have to say anything, that if I stayed it was enough. I listened to him. Then I raised my hand and placed it on his back. My palm tingled where it touched the fabric of his coat. Louis moved closer, if that was even possible.
I don't know what I'll do, he wailed. The sound of his sobs vibrated against my skin. I can't go home, he said. Harry, his voice took on a desperate tone that caught me off guard, freezing the circular motions of my hand, you have to promise me that... He didn't finish. His hands took my only available hand, enveloping it completely and inevitably suffocating me. I think my lungs forced me to inhale as if the oxygen had been extinguished from the room. I pulled both hands away from his touch roughly. I think I physically hurt him in the action. I'm not sure.
We looked at each other. I couldn't tell if Louis was shocked by his own actions. At least I was. Tears were imprinted on his cheeks as were the reddish lines in his eyes. His jaw was chattering as he struggled to get out of bed and stand up. I didn't stop him as he walked out the door and closed it behind him, leaving me stranded in a world I was just arriving in.
From the position of the moon in the sky, I estimate that it must have been seven hours since the incident. I have never felt so lonely, so foolish and inexperienced. Life is getting harder as the years go by and there is nothing I can do to stop it, or to even ask for guidance to help me through the events the Universe puts in my path. What am I supposed to do, Alison? Because I have no idea. I've never felt like this before, with no clue to follow. How can I be expected to do the right thing when I have no map to tell me?