It could not have been April. It must have been March, maybe even late February. The sun seemed to have stationed itself lower in the sky than usual, and the buds had hardly started blooming, with daffodils just beginning to show their golden heads. Bea took comfort in spring lagging behind, though. It gave him a less definitive sense of time. Perhaps it also cast the illusion that he had more of it, when he had very little. The room needed to be ready by late afternoon, which Ada and Grace were taking care of, but dinner was also a pressing matter, and Bea was near waist deep in hay. The grainy scent had all but taken over his nose while crimson scratches adorned his arms in a somewhat cross-hatch pattern. He had sucked on one of the wounds under the height of the sun by the stable door, the tinge of salt and blood still fresh in his mouth.
The hay stood stacked in neat piles now. With the gentle huffs of Clementine's Quarter horse filling the barn, Bea took a long, deep breath to fill his lungs with his temples pounding; he pressed his fingertips flush against them, gazing up at the loft ceiling full of cobwebs. Nathan said he sometimes climbed up the rafts to clean them off, and it made Bea ever more grateful to toil away in the kitchen.
Bits of conversations ventured down to Bea's position near the ground, so he straightened and peaked around the stall in hopes that the stable master had returned to relieve him, but Mr. Griggs's frame was accompanied by another. The figure towered heads above the other, dwarfed only by the horse he was leading. His elegant shirt had been undone at his broad chest, the sleeves billowing out from the gentle spring breeze drafting in behind him and ruffling his vermillion hair. The air about the man seemed one of importance that commanded attention and garnered respect, and he gave Bea little acknowledgement as he stopped in the wide open doors. A brief, cold smile was all he got before he looked elsewhere, and the lesser chef was almost grateful the severe gaze had not kept on him, despite wanting to seek it. His breath had caught in his chest.
"Bea, would you take Master Godwin's horse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Call me Oakley, Griggs."
Griggs just shook his head. He had been tending the Godwin's horses and stables since Oakley was a child and probably knew the Shire horse better than the owner did, despite having been away for two years.
The horse appeared docile enough as Bea approached, and he was able to take the reins from the man's fingers with ease. He stood for a moment to the side to stroke the animal's muzzle with the flat of his palm before he guided it to the stall he had spent all afternoon clearing out, and clucked to himself as he undid the bridle. He didn't mind listening to the two men talk behind him about the weather
"I should change," Oakley said. The image of his powerful chest bare from his linen shirt and the sleeves rolled up in haste to reveal solid, brawny arms struck Bea hard.
"I heard Misses Godwin has requested quite the dinner."
A low sigh echoed. Bea had paused now, as if being still would again prolong the moment. His brow deepened.
"Go on. We'll take care of Jasper."
He glimpsed over his shoulder. Oakley caught his eye, but he held it this time. Bea could not help but feel he was being teased with the thorough stare, and the idea that the man was somehow capable of reading his thoughts made him squirm.
"You're a bit scrawny for a stable boy."
Bea's cheeks, glistening from a slight sheen of sweat, flushed an embarrassing hue of scarlet.
"I'm not a stable boy," he insisted. "I'm a cook."
Oakley's full lips moved in an amused grin, but he hardly had time to refute himself further, as the man already made his way to the exit. Frowning, he stared hard after the rippling back retreating farther and farther, until the bit of fluttering white linen was gone from sight.
"Don't let it get to you, Bea," Mr. Griggs chided, swiping a stained hand across Jasper's side.
"Am I free to go?"
The stable master nodded his head. "Nathan should be better by tomorrow. Much obliged."
Bea stretched out his shoulders before making his way out between the stalls and into the low brush field. He stopped in the late afternoon light cascading down from all sides, grass kissing his bare ankle as he fixated on eyes like viridescent leaves. Being mocked was not something Bea enjoyed, especially not when done in such a way that he felt his very entity was transparent and being looked through. A breeze startled the flaxen hair near his temple, tickling it away from his skin almost like a hand. The scrapes on his arms stung with smeared blood, and the old cotton of his shirt sleeve was marked with it; he didn't think it would wash out.
Bea took the longer route back. A pond was positioned at the lower end of the field, and there he often ate lunches of left over vegetables and thick raspberry marmalade spread on a slice of fresh bread that Otto had just baked that morning. He scooped up a stone to feel for the smooth, circular contour he was looking for, and tossed it at an angle into the water. It skipped three times on the surface before sinking out of sight and Bea headed on, forgetting the moment in the barn now. By the door to the kitchen, a patch of strawberries were beginning to sprout in hues of light carmine, like Oakley's hair. Bea bent. He plucked the ripest one off and headed inside, sinking his teeth into the fruit. Juice filled his mouth with saccharine notes and sour undertones, so he paused in the doorway to savor the pleasant contrast until he was spied by the head chef.
"Are they finished turning you into a stable boy?" the man questioned as he slapped a slab of beef into an iron pot on the gas range.
"For now, I suppose so. I desperately hope Nathan's ankle is cured immediately."
"Leave it to Ada. She's a miracle-worker."
Bea gave a slight nod. "I'm going to change and wash, if it's alright with you, sir."
Otto simply gave a shrug. It had taken Bea quite some time to learn how to interpret his gestures and expressions, and he was a hard read, but he had become comfortable in the two years since the Godwins had employed him. He avoided being sentimental at all costs in regards to the cook, though he did feel as if he was something of a father figure, and he was rather fond of him. They worked well together at least and Bea had learned plenty from Otto, who cared much more about seasoned meats than others' company.
After filling up a pot with heated water, Bea passed out of the kitchen and through the dining room. The servants' quarters were directly on the other side of the estate in an attached installment consisting of two bedrooms split by gender and an area to wash. Bea had never had a room of his own in the apartment he had shared with his grandfather, so it hadn't been much of an adjustment. His worn leather boots padded against the wooden floor in harmony with the slosh of the tepid water slapping the side of its container, and in the distance, the chime of the girls' voices filled the other spaces in the air. This was the flourishing of summer, with the promise of more sun and more fresh-from-the-ground strawberry juice on the back of the throat.
Light pooled in from the high window on the back wall of the washroom, warm and brassy in color. Bea paused by the tarnished wood counter, which he placed his water on, and first he kicked off his shoes. He loosened the buttons on his once crisp white shirt, pulling the fabric out from where it had been tucked into his trousers. With the button down discarded thoughtlessly on a stool near the sink basin, Bea held a towel under the water for a moment, and brought it up soaking.
A rough knock on the doorframe startled the breath out of him. Spinning around, he caught sight of the soaring shape of Oakley ducking into the room.
"I didn't mean to alarm you--"
"Well, you did," Bea insisted.
"Stable boys shouldn't be so easily disturbed."
He held the sopping towel flush to his chest as if it would somehow make him more decent.
"I'm a cook, thank you. Do you need something?"
"I just left my shirt."
It seemed as if all of a sudden the man was right near him, and he tensed in frustration and apprehension. It bothered him to no end that Oakley could read his body language much easier with his shirt off, and that he didn't much seem perturbed himself as he lifted Bea's shirt off the stool. He watched one great hand hold the cloth in a fist. The back of the hand was smooth, the knuckles defined, and it formed its movements almost gracefully. Bea thought of the stone he had skipped earlier, his palm curving with the outline of the rock, and he wondered what it would be like to be a pebble in someone else's hand.
"Those are some dreadful cuts," Oakley said. He had found his shirt mingling beneath Bea's, and was folding it.
"They're not too bad."
He wiped at the longest, reddest laceration on his right forearm to occupy himself in the presence of the other.
"Here, look, don't scrub at them."
Bea let his wrist be grabbed and the towel relieved from his grasp. His wounds throbbed under the weight of the fabric as it was pressed tight to them, and then dabbed; the smears of vague blood were washed away. Flustered, he kept his eyes trained on the wall, trying his best not to focus in on the fact that Oakley stood beside him tending to him in a way he hadn't pegged him for at all.
"You should see Grace."
The towel landed with a flop on the counter, and Oakley withdrew as fast as he had moved in, like he hadn't shared space with the cook at all. Bea's arms were ivory again, tingling with a sensation other than ache.
"You shouldn't leave your belongings in here."
"Clementine was bathing in the other bath. You shouldn't be so careless."
"Careless how?"
Bea's intonation was indignant and guarded. He wasn't keen on finishing this conversation, knowing he'd lose either way.
"Your arm speaks for itself."
"It's not as if I meant to--"
"Do you hurt yourself in the kitchen then, too, I suppose? I'm not entirely sure it's wise to have you around sharp objects."
Oakley still seemed so relaxed. His words had a nonchalant air to them, as if maybe he didn't mean to tease him so, but Bea couldn't help but construe it in such an angle that he didn't care how he sounded, and perhaps that he didn't care how it could be taken. To make matters worse, Bea's skin was still quivering from his wrist being ringed in the other's fingers. His thumb had rested in the concave portion at the base of his hand, hardly wandering at all, but he wondered if it had, would he have let it? A phantom of Oakley's thumb placed on the hollow of his cheek in a stroking pattern crossed him.
"I'm capable," was all he could manage.
"Very well." Oakley finished folding his shirt. "I'll let you finish."
Bea half had the notion to ask him to leave the shirt there on stool in a folded pile of linen, so he could drape his bloodied button down over it and pretend it was their bodies, but Oakley was on his way out. If only he wasn't so kin to Greek gods, so powerful, maybe it wouldn't have gotten to him. How could one look into that commanding face and pass it off easily? Gaze following the scarlet lines on his arms, Bea wondered if he gave himself more, would Oakley tend to them again? He'd slit his forearms. It was just an excuse to be touched.
He cupped his hands under the water in the basin and brought it up. It had cooled off, but the splash against his face was a welcome distraction from his thoughts as the droplets clung to his eyelashes and parted lips. Bea stood still. Water trickled in an aimless path down his neck like a soft, curious finger. If he left this bathroom, would he remember the feeling? Would he forget? Or would everything remind him of a man standing over him, tall like a young tree, and holding him? He wished he would have had the courage to look him in the face while he cleaned him off. He wanted to know what he looked like when he decided to be kind. He figured he would forever regret not peeking.
Bea buried his face in a dry towel and rubbed. Once he set it down, he went to gather up his forgotten shirt, turning it over to where it had laid against Oakley's. Shamefully, he pressed his nose into it, the last bit of him he had in that moment. As painful and overwrought as it had been to stand there next to him, he wanted it back now, even if it meant being weak and vulnerable. He knew he was being unreasonable, but he thought every moment from now on would revolve around this: before or after Oakley Godwin had showed him how priding himself on being levelheaded and fair was a false notion.
His shirt draped around his bare shoulders, he left the washroom with the pot cradled in his arms. Bea changed into fresh clothes in the bedroom, grateful for the stiff feel of clean cotton on skin now that he had washed, but he didn't have much time to bask in it. Beef soup was waiting for him to finish in the kitchen, and it was approaching supper time, which provided him with something else to occupy his thoughts with for a while. He rather took pride in his position, even if he was a low chef, but after clearing out the stable for a good part of the afternoon, his appreciation was bolstered tenfold. He knew his grandfather would be proud of him as well; he thought he must write to him when he could.
The kitchen felt different, and so did the rest of the house as he passed through it. Oakley had just arrived for the summer months, due to leave in August to return to his duties at the bank in the city, but really Bea wasn't sure he could go back to brining vegetables brought in from the garden, slicing strawberries in the hot, sticky afternoons, and marinating meat for dinner. He was also quick to realize that this entity that had taken hold of him swiftly from just a cold glare and a single touch was going to be eating the food he had prepared.
Once the soup was done simmering in its pot, Otto and Bea placed the feast on the dining table. Ada had set the chinaware out already on top of a stark white cloth contrasted by dark place mats for each member of the family. Truly, this was just the beginning. Extended family members would be dropping by to reunite for a celebration later in the week. Mrs. Godwin had rightfully wanted to give Oakley a day to relax back at home after his long ride in the morning hours, but extravagant as ever, she had requested a spectacular meal to be prepared on his arrival day anyway. Otto, of course, had delivered; there was hardly any room on the table left. The main attractions were honey glaze dripping from slices of pink ham, carrots and potatoes glistening from baking in a marinade of oil and herbs, and lastly, the warm beef soup chock full of wild mushrooms, that Bea had prepared.
As the two men set the last of the feast on the table, Oakley entered the dining room. He brushed by Bea without a hello or a glance in his direction. It would have been better if he had even just given him the unimpressed stare from back in the stable, just to acknowledge him, but he also knew his place. That's how the summer would be. He wouldn't be a second or even third thought, just a ghost haunted by a singular moment. In his mind, the bathroom had been a mistake. He had always misconstrued kindness for fondness. Sometimes actions were much quieter than words, as they should be. He could never tell their intentions.
The eldest Godwin sat to the right of his father, red locks now gathered into a loose, yet tidy knot, unlike how free they had been earlier. His shirt sleeves were rolled up in response to the day having grown hotter, but he still maintained an air of orderliness. Bea, lingering in the doorway, gazed at the back of his silhouette. Broad and robust, the shoulders spread firmly, taut almost, and he wondered if the skin was soft and if his lips would be sufficient enough to test that. To press his inquisitive mouth on the shoulder blades and let it meander to the slight hollows they created was nothing short of a fierce dream. He would lay his naked chest across Oakley's back, their skin heated and damp with a post coital glow.
He moved on from the dining room at last.
ns 15.158.61.53da2
