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The minute hand of the clock sojourned from 47' to 48'. Only twelve minutes to go now, until the new year. It was just as well. As far as Francis was concerned, in twelve minutes the calendar year could move forward by one, or back, or skip a full decade ahead. He had no horse in the race, so to speak.
He wondered whether it had started to snow outside – the threat had certainly been present in the air earlier – but not by enough to move from his spot by the fire. He wondered how James Ross was getting on at the party he’d invited Francis to. About his siblings and their families, the millions affected by the famine back home. Home. Here was a strange word – but he did not have the wherewithal to wonder about that tonight.
As for his former crew–
He shook his head in silent rebuke of himself.
Now there were only ten minutes to midnight. He would see the new year, as pointless an exercise as it was, then turn in for the night. He would–
Answer the door? he thought wildly, for before he could complete his initial thought, its bell had indeed started to ring – and with extraordinary urgency at that.
Needless to say, he was expecting no one tonight, at this hour of the night. A guest then, he reasoned, for one of the other flats? Yet no one else was home tonight, including the landlady who had gone over to her sister’s in Croydon, and guests did not call on hosts at ten to midnight. Imagining a heart wrenching tragedy unfolding on the street – a kind and elderly man taken ill, a carriage smashed with its occupants trapped inside – he rose to his feet. Because more likely than not the twat ringing their bell like there was no tomorrow was a drunk and Francis would certainly not abandon his spot by the fire for that.
Clenching jaw and fists alike, he shuffled down the stairs, then yanked the front door open.
When he saw the culprit for the commotion, he thought,
So I was right after all; and,
Oh.
“Fitzjames?” was what he said.
“Yes. I am he. Francis. Hi.”
His cheeks were red. His hair was dishevelled with only a dusting of snow – it had started to snow after all – on his head for a hat. With one hand, he was leaning heavily on his walking stick, the other was still wrapped around the rope of the doorbell.
“I wasn’t–” Francis cleared his throat, forcing his gaze up from the whitened steps it had fallen to. “You are in Blackheath.”
At ten minutes – less now, no doubt – to midnight, on New Year’s Eve.
“Yes.” James nodded somewhat longer and more vigorously than necessary on account of his inebriated state. “I was uh–” He looked around himself as if the answer may be revealed by the quiet street in the process of snuggling under a blanket of snow, before turning back to Francis – not at all like, Francis remarked, the tide that returns to the same shore over and over again. “I was in the neighbourhood.”
They’d barely seen each other of late, really.
“Indeed? Have you changed your mind about Ross’ party after all?”
At this James furrowed his brow and cocked his head to the side – a picture of confusion. Thus Francis was compelled to add:
“Unless you ventured to Blackheath in the snow to declare your undying love to me?”
The quip was not wholly without basis. On the journey home – that word again – for a few weeks, there had been a . . . coming together of minds, of souls. They had wiled away many a night in pleasant conversation. Francis massaged James’ muscles to relieve them of taut discomfort and James wiped his brow, knuckles brushing against the soft skin of Francis’ temple, when Francis was laid up with an inconsequential fever. Smiles were traded between them; their cabins grew warmer, the frost of the Arctic thawing from their bones at last, and Francis thought then, perhaps–
But England has a way of taking dreams and turning them to dust, or perhaps, equally, the ocean spinning them of thin air.
Thus, the quip carried with it a level of heartbreak – and perhaps bitterness – and for that very reason, Francis was not prepared for James to let out a sharp and panicked guffaw – guilty as sin, one might say.
“No, no,” said James, shaking not only his hand, his head, but indeed his whole body. “You deserve far better than me.”
Ah, thought Francis at that – though this reaction of his can perhaps be better transcribed as ‘Ah!!’ with several exclamation marks, or by reference to the startled sound a cat makes when roused without warning from sleep – a sort of mrrpph!
Not having spent the night drinking, however, Francis did possess the wherewithal to suggest at this point that James come inside.
James followed the order he was given dutifully.
Yet, despite his sloshed state – and owing perhaps to Francis’ inability to think of a suitable reply in good time – he did not let the journey upstairs interrupt his train of thought.
“For one,” –he sat down in the armchair Francis pointed him to– “I am as good as a cripple. My memory,” –he shook his head– “is not what it was, and the less is said about the aches and pains that seize my body each day, the better.”
He took the water glass Francis offered him, though he seemed less clear on what one is generally expected to with a water glass that is full of water, opting to hold it in his hand as he spoke instead.
“Second is the matter of my vanity. ‘Mine your courage from a different lode,’ you told me, ‘friendship, brotherhood,’ yet praise the fabric and the cut of my waistcoat or the features of my visage–”
Crickets.
Well, given the shockingly limited number of crickets active in London in winter, one might more aptly describe the sudden silence that fell upon the room as ‘the crackling of fire’ or ‘the falling of snow’.
Consequently, Francis found himself compelled to ask “and?” He was still at a bit of a loss himself as to what it was that James was – really – saying, or how he should respond.
“No, I mean, praise them.”
James gestured with his hand, his earnest eyes fixed on Francis.
“T-the fabric and the cut of your waistcoat or the features of y-your visage?” Francis enquired. It is, after all, not every day that a seeming if-then statement turns out to be a direct order calling for praise, and even less so one coming from the man one is hopelessly in love with.
But that was indeed the case tonight, and James replied,
“If you don’t mind.”
Well.
Francis took a deep breath.
“I have long thought them handsome – your features. Their sharp angles give your face a classical, masculine beauty, and I am – especially fond of the groves that form around your lips when you smile.”
His words were halting yet suffused with extraordinary warmth, seeing as they reflected the innermost sincerity of his heart.
Alas, their finer qualities appeared to be lost on Commander Fitzjames, who buried his head in his hands and exclaimed ‘see!’:
“My heart leaps at the praise – the thought that you may find my appearance pleasing. I spend long minutes in front of the mirror, and this waistcoat cost me a bloody fortune. And we have not even touched on how desperately I still seek the approval of my betters.”
Disregarding that last sentence, his heart, Francis remarked, leaps.
Well.
Furthermore, was the fact that James had ventured – from Baker Street and through snow – to Blackheath, for him. On New Year’s Eve.
These were clues as to what it was that James was – really – saying, and perhaps Francis would take a seat after all. And raise an eyebrow, and suggest,
“A bit like a peacock, then, hm?”
This, even if the despondent expression that came over his friend nearly made him regret his words.
“Yes, Francis – or – or like one of those ludicrous birds one finds in the Tropics.”
Taking in the dejected and despairing figure his friend cut, Francis began to realise that the past few months had perhaps not been easy on James either.
“Mm – I know what you speak of. Handsome birds, though.”
James’s head whipped up, eyes wide, eager.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, my dear.”
My dear – where had that come from? It was uncharted territory – with a man. Francis coughed, mostly to have something to do, feeling his cheeks colour. But it was the truth, was it not? That was exactly what James was. Had been since before they abandoned their frozen ships.
James meanwhile charged full speed ahead: “It is no use. Had our cannibal friends, had Mr Hickey, cut open my chest and wrested my heart from my breast and cooked it in a hearty broth, none of them would live to see the morning – so poisoned it is with envy.”
“Envy?”
Though he may have faulted another man for it, in truth, James was far too dear (see) to Francis for him not to understand why he may envy their fellow man his health or good fortune. On this matter, however, he seemed off-base, for James replied:
“‘My name is Sir James Clark Ross, and I am so handsome, and so accomplished.’”
Sir James! And a remark offered with such venom as well!
Tut tut. As ardently as Francis loved Fitzjames – and it was most ardently indeed – and as drunk as James was, a line had to be drawn somewhere. Accordingly, Francis reminded,
“We would have perished had it not been for him.”
James laughed bitterly. “Do you think I do not know that? I mean, how can I possibly compare to him? How can I possibly sit here and tell you, ‘Baker Street is the place to be, Francis, not Blackheath. Have dinner with me, not him.’ Oh, there is no use. Don’t you see?”
At this point, the reader hopefully, indeed, sees. With no disparagement intended to the readers who may be a bit slow, this said visible fact was now evident even to the mantelpiece clock, who presently alerted Francis that (a) it had struck midnight, (b) this was a fact he may use to his advantage if he so pleased.
Francis did please it very much. Ever the romantic at heart and a bit more mischievous than he would let on, he told James,
“Well, all that as it may be James, we do find ourselves sitting under the mistletoe and it has just struck midnight.”
“Mistletoe?” James looked around himself, the room, not, it seemed, to much avail. “What mistletoe?”
“That mistletoe.” Francis pointed to the ceiling.
“Francis, I don’t–”
“Indeed? You do not see it?”
Very briefly James’ beautiful but perplexed eyes touched Francis’. Francis was smiling, which made him look very handsome himself. Therefore, when he looked up at the ceiling next, James indeed saw the large (if imaginary) bough of mistletoe hanging from it.
“Ah,” he said accordingly, “that mistletoe.”
Francis wrung his hands, a whisper of doubt touching his heart after all.
“We could, ah, always forego the custom.”
Perhaps James had launched on his speech only to spare Francis’ feelings. Perhaps he was too drunk to know what he was saying. Perhaps, perhaps.
Yet James was already rising to his feet.
“No, captain, I am afraid that simply will not do. Tradition must be honoured.”
“Well, then.”
Any dark whispers extinguished, Francis stood too. As he did so, his heart had taken flight and was singing loudly enough to rival a pandemonium of parakeets – so much so that he thought its chirps must be audible from every corner of the neighbourhood.
Fitzjames, in love with him?
Fitzjames, so consumed by his love that he would forego merriment and revelry and come to his door to see the new year?
Oh – he could scarcely believe his ears, his eyes.
Yet, both were honest witnesses, and he and James made quick work of closing the distance they had allowed to open between them to meet in a tender, passionate (and rather sloppy) kiss.
The morning would bring some more handwringing, doubt and yearning, for both men were of a dramatic temperament and both bruised by life and love.
James would wake to an empty bed with a letter he was too scared to open resting upon Francis’ pillow. He would wonder:
- Had he really ambushed Francis at home, whilst drunk as a skunk?
- Had he forced Francis to praise his looks whilst confessing feelings any man of good character must consider odious?
- Rudely imitated Sir James, who was not only their saviour, but Francis’ best friend forever as well?
- Worst yet, had he invented a bough of mistletoe, just so he could, limpet-like, attach himself to Francis’ mouth and wag his tongue about in that dark and wonderful cave?
The figurative parakeets (which were very different than Francis’ Parakeets of Love from the previous) cawing and roosting in his head and pecking at his brain would not help with the matters either.
Meanwhile Francis, who bolted out of the flat before first light would have questions of his own to contend with as he walked and walked through London:
- Did James mean what he said?
- Did he (i.e. Francis) deserve to be happy – after everything? (Surely not??)
- If James did not mean what he said, would he not disappear from Francis’ life forever now, leaving him utterly bereft?
- Was he not any or all of: too ugly, old, grumpy or troublesome for James to want to stay?
How would Fitzjames look in a dress? (This last question was quickly scratched– well, temporarily, at least).
Yet, both men were also stubborn and strong.
Around mid-day, James worked up the courage to open the letter, and Francis for his part worked up the courage to return home. It was at 5 p.m. sharp, as he said he would in the letter alongside a most sincere declaration of his love and an option extended to James to leave before then if he wished with the subject never to be broached again.
When he turned the key in the lock, it was to find a flat perfectly dark and quiet.
So much for that then, he thought to himself as he shuffled inside, dejected, his heart sinking.
In the drawing room, he found James asleep in his armchair, looking very handsome in his expensive waistcoat indeed.