Mornings were sacred. On humid days, dew kept the warm air moist and refracted the early sun into little fragments of scattered rainbows. The dampness clung to Bea’s face as he sat beneath the oak tree by the back door. He held an orange in his palm, the last one out of the imported bunch that Mr. Godwin had shipped in. The fruit was becoming a bit too malleable to the touch, but the slight firmness still remained, and the juice retained its tang when bitten into.
The back door banged open.
“Was your name Bea?”
The aforementioned Bea peeked over his shoulder at the unlikely frame of Oakley, and the familiar sensation of blood rushing to his cheeks resurfaced. It was such a giveaway, and a giveaway was the last thing he wanted in the presence of the other man who once again had him trapped in his gaze. It hardly seemed fair.
“Yes, my name is Bea, if it concerns you so much.”
Oakley strolled to the far side of the wrought-iron bench Bea had perched himself on for the morning. Breakfast for the Godwin’s must have just finished, since he had placed the meal on the table a mere 30 minutes ago and Oakley was dressed already in day clothes: a plain, yet crisp white button down layered beneath a deep navy blue vest, which seemed to hardly close around his proud, sloping chest. He had his face tipped toward the crown of the tree they were under, brows knitting downward.
“Do you mind accompanying me to the market? I would rather not spend my time around the manor.”
Bea’s head turned quickly in confusion.
“I mean, I suppose I could.”
He felt he had to be careful with his words, as if one misstep would cause Oakley to reconsider.
“Excellent.” Oakley’s usually sonorous tone seemed vague, certainly dissimilar to the rich, broad voice that had teased him so in the washroom. The disparity further confounded Bea. Was he playing games? He hated not knowing where he stood, but he wondered if he was reading too much into every syllable. Maybe each consonant and vowel wasn’t a code for something else, and yet it was almost worse that way.
Bea stood. The wooden board with the last of the orange slices was cradled in his hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change.”
“I’ll be out ‘round front.”
Bea tried his best not to look too prompt. He made a leisurely stroll to the door and slipped inside. After resting the board on the kitchen counter, he padded back to his quarters for a change of clothes. He often headed down to the market in the mornings to pick up fresh produce and more importantly to escape the manor for an hour or so.
Oakley had stationed himself by the garden with his back to the front door. One hand cradled a vibrant lily. His hair was tied in a strand of ribbon, a feminine touch to his otherwise masculine appearance, and the light morning breeze that had started was rustling his shirt sleeves. He turned when Bea closed the front door behind him.
“Does Ezra still take care of the garden?” he asked.
Bea shook his head. “Ezra fell ill some months ago.”
It had been a sudden ailment, right before spring broke, and no one had heard word since. In the meantime, the garden had grown unruly, but flowers still sprung up in unexpected areas. Bea favored the overgrowth over the tidiness. He liked the shrubs wildly spreading and the wildflowers returning in almost every corner of the front yard.
“We should be off before it gets too hot,” Oakley continued. “I can hold the basket.”
Surprised, Bea handed the empty wicker basket to Oakley. The sun sat low in the east still, so the rays hadn’t had the chance to become too intense yet. The market was about a twenty minute walk from the edge of the manor’s property, all on level ground. Bea sometimes made the walk by himself when the Godwin’s couldn’t get their food stuffs imported or if Griggs was too busy to make the carriage ride down. He didn’t mind it. He usually spent his time in the kitchen, so a small trip was a welcomed change. If he had saved, he might buy himself a confectionery.
The two men remained quiet in stride, side by side. Cicadas were the only thing filling the silence, but Bea found himself to be comfortable. He thought after last evening that the air between them would be awkward, but it was clear that Oakley’s actions hadn’t meant anything. Or, at least they didn’t mean the same as they did to Bea, and in that moment he thought he could let go of it after holding onto it all night. It wouldn’t bother him after all. It wasn’t going to leave a mark on him the way he had predicted; the walk to the market wasn’t going to be remembered as the morning after. The cuts on his arms would fade. The musk of Oakley standing so close would fade from his nose as well. All that would be left would be his healed skin, alone. He could handle that so much easier than the alternative.
Slowly, trees phased into life in another way. A canopy of buildings clad in brick and dark wood surrounded them on both sides, and the multi-color stalls created an elaborate and stimulating maze. A combination of the aromas of freshly baked bread, overripe fruit, and coal suffocated the space.
“I just come here for the pastries,” Oakley said as he paused by an array of tea cakes.
“I could make you those, Mr. Godwin.”
Bea’s voice quickly lost to the frantic yelling ahead of them.
“Oakley! Oakley Godwin!”
The man stopped and glanced up as Bea sourced the commotion. A long, slim woman pushed her way through the crowd, one hand holding her skirt to the side and the other clutching the dainty hat on her blonde head. Maida Rose never did mind causing a scene.
“Oakley!” she repeated once more when she reached him.
“Maida,” Oakley replied, and he straightened downward so she could peck him on his cheek. Bea hated how nonchalant he was. He hated how easy the movement came to him. The scratches burned harder.
“Where on Earth have you been?”
“Where I always have been.”
She fixed him with a look.
“Don’t you think I know that? You haven’t written me one single letter in three years.”
“I must have forgotten.”
“You never visit. “
“You never visit either.”
Bea couldn’t look at him, not at the sweat collecting on his brow, the buttons on his vest that he had subtly undone during their walk, nor the knuckles that were calmly bent around the basket’s handle. This was the morning after.
“Oh, I suppose you’re right.”
She flung her arms tight around his neck. His hand came down on her waist, and Bea peeked to see his lips purse into a fond smile. When they parted, their hands lingered on each others’. Not a day ago, those fingers had been around his wrist. He was so naïve.
“Good morning, Bea,” Maida greeted him at last.
“Good morning,” he managed.
“I brought him along for his expertise. Is this a good tomato, do you think, chef?”
The tone was antagonizing.
“Must you be so rude?”
“It looks rotten.”
“Indeed?”
Maida smacked Oakley’s arm, and a second smile was thrown at her. Bea thought he might be sick. The overall loud hum of the market, the strong smells, and the rising temperatures were enough to overwhelm him.
“I really should be heading back.” His voice was hurried. He hoped Oakley would come with him so they could be alone again, together. He couldn’t help himself; he had to be selfish with his company.
“I’m just going to pick up some vegetables. I’ll only be a second.”
“It was wonderful to see you, Oakley. I suppose I’ll stop by tomorrow.” Maida fixed the hat on her head one last time, looking up into his towering figure. From her tilted posture, it almost seemed she was waiting for a kiss, a proper one this time, but Oakley pulled back. Bea felt he could breathe once more, even if the reserved reaction was oblivious.
“Have a good afternoon, Miss Rose.”
Oakley moved on without another word. He made his way through with Bea scurrying after him, struggling to keep up with his long legs. He kept at his heals.
“I was thinking some roasted potatoes would do me well.”
“You ought to find some good ones. I can help.” It was a pathetic attempt at bringing back the pride the eldest Godwin had knocked down not moments earlier, and also to bring back around the bit of friendship Oakley had doled out before they left for the market.
“I do know good produce, Mr. Whitlock.”
At the mention of his surname, Bea’s head whipped up. Again, Oakley didn’t even turn back to look at him. The sheer insouciance of his manner maddened him to an irritating degree, and he wanted to demand that Oakley face him and say what he meant. Throwing around his last name seemed much too familiar.
“D-do you?”
“Must I prove myself?”
When the gaze he had wanted finally fell on him, Bea averted his eyes, tugging out the wrinkles at the bottom of his shirt. He wished he had a spine, or a shred of willpower, anything, but his thoughts conflicted him in every direction he went down. There definitely wasn’t any path he could go down now that didn’t confuse and unsettle him.
“Why don’t you?” Bea shot back when he found a bit of confidence.
“Alright.”
Oakley stopped in front of a stall with less traffic, and Bea, flustered, settled to the side of him. One hand cradled a bushel of carrots exaggeratedly, as if his touch alone could determine the worth of the vegetable. The lesser chef kept his eyes trained on the fingers, now moving over the other vegetables in their wooden boxes, until without meaning to, he looked at his profile. He appeared amused. His soft lips were tilted ever so slightly upward, curving in ways Bea didn’t realize could be so bewitching. He gravitated to thoughts of gliding over the curves with his own mouth, and he couldn’t help but stray to the concept of Oakley feeling him out the same way he was with the carrots, to declare the worth he didn’t think he had.
One eyebrow raised.
“What are your thoughts on this one, chef?”
Bea pressed in a bit closer. The carrot was vibrant and healthy.
“Not too bad, overall.” He pointed to small rift in the skin. “You missed this. And I thought you wanted potatoes.”
“You struck me as a perfectionist, and my intuition was right.” Oakley paused. “Roasting carrots with potatoes isn’t acceptable?”
There was something about his intonation that caused Bea to look back up. His voice was softer almost, if not submitting to something completely out of both of their grasps, and it sent a chill up his spine. Oakley’s guard was lowered. Bea wanted to inquire about Maida, about the use of his last name, but the moment was gone. The man’s brow hardened.
“Of course it’s acceptable.”
“As I thought.” Oakley turned to the stall’s keeper. “How much for the carrots and five pounds of potatoes?”
He placed the slightly imperfect carrots along with the bag of potatoes in the basket still slung on his arm before the two men set off down the road again. The silence between them this time was deafening, and Oakley’s wall was higher than ever, posing impossible for Bea to climb over now. He kept his head down, his back to the sun, and his mind on potatoes and carrots. He supposed they were similar. He often mixed them in winter stews, or spread them around roasted beef with sprigs of rosemary to brighten the meal. He thought he’d offer to roast Oakley’s vegetables himself tonight, drizzle and rub them in olive oil and fine salt, and pair them with crusty bread, but kindness didn’t seem appropriate. Maybe he’d take the basket in his arms when they arrived back to the manor, set it down in the pantry, and let the potatoes and carrots rot. That was a better course of action. He’d throw them out into the garden eventually so it wouldn’t be wasteful. They could decompose, and once they were soil, he’d forget.
It was before noon when the pair arrived back. Without handing off the basket to Bea, Oakley headed inside, and Bea kept in the garden to avoid mingling paths. He would go to the kitchen when he felt he could and start preparing tea for the afternoon. He set himself beside the lilies Oakley had been examining earlier, and plucked at the weeds growing blatantly around their stems in Ezra’s absence.
ns 15.158.61.11da2
