Alec

by William di Canzio

Inspired by E. M. Forster’s Maurice

Alec grew to be a cheerful, sturdy boy and then a good-looking teenager, with bright brown eyes, thick wavy hair, and a reputation in school for brains and diligence. He benefited from England’s progress in free education. From age seven to thirteen, he learned to read (well), write (poorly), and do arithmetic (accurately). Because his father prospered and Alec behaved himself, his teachers encouraged him to stay on for three more years. He studied basic mathematics, history, a little Latin and French, and read the English poets. He liked geometry: spheres, planes, lines, angles, volumes. They gave the schoolboy pause—maybe what seemed the random stuff of everyday life partook of a complex, cosmic order, like that of the planets and stars. As for English history, he enjoyed the Wars of the Roses and the ensuing mayhem of Tudors and Stuarts; but after Cromwell things got dull in his opinion and stayed that way. Latin and French were no fun at all: the smattering they offered at the village school got barely further than grammar. As for poetry, it baffled but intrigued him; when he spent enough time, letting sound and sense come together, it could stir unnameable feelings.

Meantime, blessed with excellent health, Alec kept up with his schoolmates in sports. He played football because everybody did, though he liked cricket better because the persnickety rules prevented getting trampled by an oaf. (Also he thought the white clothes were smart.) With his good looks and quiet ways, he attracted the notice of girls. He enjoyed flirting with them, especially when they were sassy—like Rowena Blunt, who had a long braid, mocked the gentry, and made fun of everyone’s name, not sparing her own or that of her brother, Ivanhoe. (“I’m-a-whore Cunt,” she called him.) But Alec felt none of that lust to get under their skirts that his schoolmates hooted about. On the other hand, he did find some of those mates appealing in a way that excited him. Whenever he caught himself staring, he’d look away, because he knew that staring meant he was one of those, which was true. His schooling, however (and contrary to its intention), taught him not to despise his queerness. The insight came about this way: His teachers encouraged him, an advanced and trustworthy student, to visit the public library in Dorchester, with holdings far richer than those in the village reading room. They let him spend whole afternoons there on his own, browsing assigned subjects, among them classical history, which he liked as much as the modern stuff bored him. The myths of Greece and Rome were best, where the gods mucked things up for the human race, and then the heroes (whose ranks he ne...

Back in the village, he’d report to his teachers that he’d read about Athens and Rome in the library—i.e., about democracy and empire. He said he thought modern-day Britain was in some ways like both. They would praise his patriotic insight and send him back for more. Among those teachers was St. Osmund’s curate, a short, scrawny man with thick glasses and a scruff of hair growing up from under the back of his collar, and whose eyebrows pumped up and down when he spoke. He came to school sometimes to give moral instruction. He took the older boys off by themselves. “Men,” he’d say, “you all hail from God-fearing families and I know you’re above disgracing them with any untoward behavior. But let me warn you, man-to-man: the tempter was the brightest angel in heaven before he defied the Lord God with his pride. He’s cleverer than you know. He’ll mask sin with beauty and innocence, like a beguiling girl’s face. So guard your thoughts; thoughts too can lead you astray. Thoughts lead to words, words to action. Degenerate thoughts sap your manhood.” But thoughts were all that Alec owned, and he believed his glorious athletes had more to teach him about manhood than this repulsive clerical scarecrow, who smelled like someone who never washed below his chin. Fortunately for Alec, religious orthodoxy at home was tamed by the influence of Welsh Unitarianism on his mother’s girlhood. Not that the Scudders were openly skeptical; they attended Church of England services regularly. For...

Meantime, a young man walked up the steps from the audience to the stage and talked privately to the MC, who then held up his hand for order. “Wait, wait,” he said. “Here’s a lad from Osmington asking if he might show. What do you say?” Of course the crowd hollered in favor; onstage, the competitors smirked. The newcomer was trim and fair, with a youthful bit of a beard, dressed in well-worn rustic tweeds. Alec’s eyes widened: he knew the man. Rowena Blunt’s brother, the one with the risible name, Ivanhoe. Van, as they called him, was some years younger than Fred; the two used to go about together, until their lives turned old and serious, Fred with his girl and Van with his family’s farm. But Alec liked Van: he was thoughtful and calm (unlike Fred), and when Alec had started to notice the beauty of men, he’d admired Van’s straight eyebrows and smooth, strong neck. Van behaved matter-of-factly, unlacing his shoes, removing his tie and collar, even whistling softly while the audience chattered and joked. They quieted down as his stripping progressed. When he was standing before them in singlet and drawers, they murmured: Here was a splendid man. Nature had graced him with narrow hips, wrists, and ankles in pleasing contrast with the shapely muscles; his proportions, height to shoulders, arms to legs, were just. He pulled off his singlet and showed them a torso honed to tautness. His drawers were tight and transparent enough to reveal his sharply defined middle zone (the Bel...

Murray, dressed now, came back onstage and reviewed the contest’s criteria. He awarded the prize to a man from Gloucester, which evoked a round of booing. He then said that he was making a second prize from his own pocket to the young man who had stepped forward impromptu and shown how the benefits of physical culture and hygiene were within reach of all. A half hour later, Alec was waiting for the tram back to Osmington, rereading the contest’s fly sheet, kept for a souvenir. Behind him a familiar voice called, “Young Scudder, is it? Fred’s little brother?” Alec blushed so deeply he broke a sweat. “That’s right,” he answered. “Just Alec.” Van noticed the flyer. “Been to the show, have ya? Devotee of physical culture?” Alec had to swallow before he could speak: “Uh-huh…” “Do you practice yourself?” “Some.” “Good for you, then!” said Van. They sat side by side on the tram. Van made little of his prize: he hoped the money at least would quiet his father, who’d complained about his taking the afternoon off from the farm. Rather than boasting, Van drew Alec into a conspiracy of laughter about their siblings, staid Fred and foulmouthed Rowena. “Poor little Wee-wee Cunt. But how can you blame the child?” Van said. “That family she comes from! What kind of people call their kids Rowena and Ivanhoe and their workhorses Thomas and Sally?”

The more Alec tried not to picture Van’s valiant thighs under his trousers, the less he could think of anything else. Besides, the ride kept jostling them closer together, and Van stretched his arm across the back of the double seat, frequently marking their chatter with a squeeze of Alec’s shoulder. He told Alec he’d mail-ordered some dumbbells and set them up in the barn, where no one disturbed him. When they were parting at the Osmington stop, Alec ventured to ask if he might try Van’s dumbbells sometime. “How about now?” Van said. “There’s still a good two hours till supper and evening chores.” “Uh … all right.” Van had left his bicycle at the station. He lifted Alec onto the crossbar and pedaled the two of them through the countryside in the May afternoon. “This here’s the secret of prizewinnin’ legs,” Van yelled into the breeze. Inside, the Blunts’ barn was higher than St. Osmund’s nave, with sunlight streaming aslant through the loft’s open shutters. The horses’ stalls adjoined. The place smelled of them a little, pleasantly, to Alec’s nose—Van was fastidious about keeping the livestock clean. He offered Alec a ladle of water, then poured the rest of the bucket into the t...

In silence, Alec obeyed. He turned his back as he slipped off the knickerbockers. His hard-on made him too embarrassed to take off his drawers; he tried shifting it to one side so at least it didn’t stick straight out. When Van saw him out of his clothes, he said, “Well, look at you, now! How fine you’ve grown, a sturdy example of our Dorset architecture.” He felt Alec’s arms and shoulders approvingly; Alec smiled and shied away, but Van drew him back. “Yes, very nice,” Van said, then mussed his hair and turned him to face the mirror. “See what I mean? Look. Don’t tell me you’re modest. It’s only just me and yourself.” Alec saw in the long mirror what he couldn’t see in the bedroom at home: his body had changed, mostly by nature, but also encouraged by Professor Attila’s art. His childish waist had grown firm; his thighs sinuous, chest wider, arms rounded. Unlike Van, who was tawny, Alec was very white, with a hint of blue veins under the skin where his pectorals swelled. Van guided Alec through some exercises. To adjust Alec’s form when he was curling the dumbbells, Van had him face the mirror again and stood close behind. He slid his arm around Alec’s waist and told him to shi...

The next time they saw each other, their amorous flesh was confined in their black Sunday best at St. Osmund’s. The vicar preached on a passage from 1 Corinthians: “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” At the end of the service, he announced the first banns of marriage for Mabel White of Wool and Ivanhoe Blunt of Blunt Farm, Osmington, who were to be wed at the bride’s parish of Holy Rood three months hence. The congregation tittered with approval. Outside, Fred was congratulating Van on his good match. Alec joined them. He shook Van’s hand and earnestly wished him health and happiness in his life to come. He also said goodbye. School was finished; Alec was leaving the village.

Now the priory was in its fifth year of ownership by the Wentworths, a couple with no title but unlimited means, thanks to holdings in the B&O Railroad and Cunard and White Star, plus the new Anglo-Persian Oil Company. They wanted to smarten up the old place. To that end they were hiring more staff, like young Alec Scudder, the gamekeeper’s assistant. Alec was of two minds about his new life. He liked being out from under his parents; he liked having money, little as it was, without needing to beg every penny. He liked much of his work—raising the birds, stocking the streams; he especially liked his own particular charge of taking care of the boathouse on the big pond, where he could cool off in the summer. He also felt somehow he’d entered the world: although Michaelmount was no closer to London than Osmington was, the great house kept its eyes on the metropolis as the village never had. But he hated being a servant. Back home he’d had nothing to do with the upper classes. He despised them, of course; everybody did. They’d take the first pews in the church, so the commoners could admire their well-tailored backs by the hour on Sundays. He was taught to show respect by making way and doffing his cap, which he did grudgingly, though he found such gestures merely annoying, not painful, because it was no different from how you showed decent manners to elderly neighbors. But now it irked him to call those his own age—or even younger—sir, while they called him Scudder or hey th...

His discontent, though, was more a matter of head than heart, because at this time of life it was difficult for Alec not to be happy. He was young and healthy; well-fed, clothed, and sheltered; and he spent his days mostly outdoors. He even discovered a certain asset to his queerness: it kept him out of trouble with girls. At nearly eighteen, his looks were maturing: his face, once round, was leaner and strong; his lips, once pretty, were sensual. Work kept his pale skin ruddy, and his coloring was set off to advantage by his habitual shirts of homespun flax or wool. He’d grown a couple of inches taller; faithful to Professor Attila’s discipline (with his first month’s wages he mail-ordered a pair of dumbbells, which he wrote to tell Van about), he was becoming more fit and shapely day by day. In short, Alec was a pleasure to look at (“A near occasion of sin,” quipped the Irish laundress), a pleasure by no means lost on the thirteen girls and women in service at Michaelmount. The young ones vied for his notice; the older ones mothered him and urged their favorites on him. If Alec had been made in the usual manner, he no doubt would have succumbed to such bounty and been husband and father before he was out of his teens. But he was not made in the usual manner. He was still young enough to treat the women’s matchmaking as teasing. As for the girls, he played along with their flirting, but hoped that by keeping a certain distance, he might avoid hurting anyone’s feelings or ...

In a field the villagers had set up canvas tents, open-sided, festooned with garlands of ivy. These sheltered tables with cheeses and jams to taste and for sale, as well as a makeshift pub with barrels of beer. Little kids gotten up like sprites in face paint and paper wings scampered all over the place. There were games—quoits and ninepins, and a jackboot-toss for the prize of a piglet. While Alec was enjoying a second friendly pint, a young blacksmith slapped him on the back and invited the visitor to run in their St. John’s race. “All right, then, why not?” said Alec. He guzzled the rest of his beer before they set off to the starting line. There, to his shock and delight, Alec saw that, honoring a quaint tradition, the Brenford Midsummer Footrace was run naked. He and the blacksmith joined the scores of youths, stretching, jogging in place, their clothes folded and stacked on tables provided. The whole village was watching, including women and girls, with an awning and chairs for the gentry, and nobody thought it was queer. Alec was glad he was tipsy; it helped to disarm his shame, not to mention his terror of springing an erection, which he hoped the public circumstances would inhibit. As he set his clothes aside, a parson, eyeing him up and down, lifted his tankard in salute and winked. Alec joined the blacksmith among the runners. The starting pistol fired. Two pints of beer drunk quickly, he learned, are poor preparation for a half-mile sprint; he also learned that...

Someone behind him called, “Sutter.” He knew he was being addressed, but disliked the tone, the one used by certain house servants with the outdoor staff, so he chose not to answer till the blacksmith nudged him: “I believe you’re wanted.” It was Mrs. Wentworth’s maid, Agnes, turned out in a picturesque hat and hobble skirt. Alec said, “Oh. Afternoon, miss.” “Didn’t you hear me?” “Name’s Scudder. Thought you wor callin’ another.” “I’m sure,” she said. “Here. From Mrs. Wentworth.” She gave him a large, heavy coin. “She was pleased with your showing in the race.” “I came in thirty-fourth.” “Still, she was glad to see you run—as a man from the priory. I’ll tell her you thanked her.” She walked off. Heads turned to follow the mincing steps required by the skirt that caused her hips to sway fetchingly. Alec glanced at the money—more than a month’s wages. He slipped it into his pocket.

Alec slipped away for more ale among the runners. Being near them tantalized him, as did their easy affection toward one another. The blacksmith made room on the end of a bench, slipping his arm around Alec’s waist so he wouldn’t fall off. It seemed natural for Alec to rest a hand on the fellow’s thigh to balance himself. Relaxed by the beer, warmed by his desires, Alec moved his hand higher. The blacksmith took no notice.

“Mr. Risley wants to see the park,” she said. “Please guide him.” “Yes, ma’am,” Alec said. “Will the gentleman care to shoot?” Both hostess and guest chuckled at the question. Risley protested, “I come to praise nature, not to bury her.” His voice was loud; his diction overprecise. He was younger than his hostess, twenty-six or so, but his beard made him seem older, his face and long slender hands pale as a moth. “Two o’clock, then, darling?” she said to Risley. “Yes. Let’s say I’ll be back by four—for tea, or lunch, or whatever you call it here.” “We shan’t worry if you’re late.” Then to Alec she said, “Meet Mr. Risley by the garden gate in twenty minutes. That’s all.” “Yes, ma’am,” Alec said; he hesitated. “Ma’am—?” “What is it?” “Only I thank you … for bein’ generous with me yesterday—the race, you know, I’m meanin’—the money…” “What? What did Agnes tell you?” she said. “Never mind. She got it wrong. You can thank Mr. Risley.” Risley was lighting a cigarette. “Then thanks, sir,” Alec said. “But I’m not quite easy acceptin’ so much—for only just horsin’ around like we wor.” “Keep it,” Risley said, exhaling the clove-scented smoke. “That race inspired me.” In their tour of the woods, they’d walked only as far as the boathouse before Risley got to the point: he wanted sex and would pay. He began his proposal with highfalutin praise, comparing Alec’s face to those in paintings by Giorgione and his form to Mercury’s in Botticelli’s Primavera. “Sir, your speech is quite learn...

He also started to open his mind beyond the limits of rainy Wiltshire. The Working Men’s College was offering courses at nearby Wilton. The teachers, young idealists with degrees from Cambridge and Oxford, were advancing the founder’s vision of university-style learning for men of the working classes. The scholars made regular trips from London to regional towns to deliver the goods. Most of the men who came to sign up for school sought practical training in mechanics or drafting, with an eye to getting ahead in business. They were disappointed to find that those subjects were taught only in the city. Rather, the Wilton extension offered courses for “enrichment” in the humanities: literature, history, art, and political philosophies. Alec chose two classes that met on Tuesday evenings—The English Poetic Tradition and Italian City-States. Harrison Grant’s course in poetry was crowded with clerks with ink-stained fingers, who spent their days copying contracts, their backs hunched over desks. Word had gotten out that this particular teacher was a genuine Cambridge don volunteering his service pro bono. He was older than the other instructors—fifty, Alec guessed—nice-looking, with brown hair going gray and clean-cut features. At the first meeting, he mapped their course of reading, emphasizing Milton and Shelley, and introduced the men to the college’s mission: they were to acquire knowledge through hard work, but he hoped they would also form friendships, essential to educat...

But just as important to his education was Alec’s understanding that both of his teachers were like him. This enriched his knowledge of himself and his kind: of himself, because he found he possessed this particular insight by nature; of his kind, because he now saw there were many of his sort, throughout all livelihoods and social classes, as different from one another as were folks who called themselves normal. Both these men, he likewise intuited, were trapped. That understanding was also part of his education. He hoped he would avoid their mistakes. Clearly Mr. Grant became aroused when his students stripped down to spar at his Sunday gatherings; yet he seemed to disapprove of himself on their behalf for doing so. He’d try to disguise Eros as sportsmanship by showing them some new punch or footwork, but what the man truly craved was their touch and affection. Alec figured he was too knotted up inside to admit the desire, much less to act on it. Alec wished he could say, It’s all right, sir, go ahead, feel us up—we all think you’re grand and we’d feel you right back.

In contrast, Morgan, whom Alec deemed genuinely kind, seemed shackled by this kindness, or a misunderstanding of it. He seemed to fear that he might somehow harm others if he pursued his own desires. “May I write to you, sir?” Alec said to him in the pub after the last meeting of Italian City-States, after the lumberman had said goodbye to them, leaving the two by themselves. “I’d be very happy to hear from you! Yes, please write and tell me everything—about your adventures in the Argentine, about the loves and triumphs, and when there’s nothing to write about, well then just write about nothing.” This warmth, this effusiveness, was what Alec liked best about Morgan. In the months they’d known each other, his lively humor had emerged from his reserve. Alec was also gratified that such a learned man as Morgan would care to know him. “Truly?” he asked. “Truly.” There were things he wanted to say but did not know how to, or even if he should. He loved Morgan, and felt his love reciprocated, but he was not attracted to the man sexually. Alec sometimes wished it might be otherwise, because he knew that Morgan was attracted to him and would have liked to please him, but there was no forcing or faking such feeling, least of all with someone as insightful as his teacher. Did the man understand his quandary? Yes, Alec believed, and the tension was fruitful for both of them, allowing Alec to love him without the entanglement of sex; at the same time making their friendship, tinged w...

The next weeks were the busiest of his life, what with his work to keep up while getting ready to go. Mill and Milly, saddened at first by his news, soon turned to playacting heartbroken maidens who vowed to throw themselves into the sea after his ship. One day, near the back road to the train station, the three of them found a quarter hour to practice dramatic farewell kissing. But their play was interrupted when a car drove by, bringing a guest to the house, who scowled at them from within. The girls snickered and turned away. Alec locked eyes with the man, a handsome fellow with black hair and a mustache. He felt a sudden charge. Just as suddenly—and to his surprise—he understood it was mutual. The guest’s expression softened, unwillingly, it seemed, from anger to mildness. What was Alec seeing? Desire, loneliness, longing, even helplessness? The man’s lips parted, as if to speak, but he did not. When Alec realized they were staring at each other, he lowered his gaze and touched the brim of his cap. The car continued on toward the house.

Their fun spoiled, the dallying maids went back to their duties, but not Alec. Although his chores likewise needed doing (before he was free to tend to his own pressing business of preparing to leave England), he could make himself do nothing. What had just happened? In some ways, the silent exchange had been familiar. How many (uncountable) times he had noticed a fellow, undressed him with his eyes in a flash, then, in another flash, forgotten him. Nearly as often the game was a contest, the two players dawdling and dithering between steamy stares and feigned indifference to see who would back down first. These fantasies always came to nothing. Was that what had just happened? If so, then why was he dumbfounded? What had he seen in the stranger? The motorcar, the angle of the man’s chin, and what could be seen of his clothes expressed privilege. Was that what had attracted Alec? Wealth and what comes with it? Could he be so small-minded? He had reason to hope not, because (to give himself credit) Risley’s money and trappings had held no allure for him, nor, for that matter, did Clive Durham’s. Could it have been the man’s appearance, then, that beguilingly handsome face? Alec’s head would have turned to look after him had he passed by anywhere, no denying that. Yet it was the rare face and form that could surpass Van’s or excite a more urgent desire. For certain the pleasure they’d shared back home was ravishing, but it went no further than that for Alec: an unforgettable...

Alec was glum. Hall had never once looked at him in the drawing room. Had their meeting of eyes that morning, so momentous to Alec, meant nothing to him? Then he took heart, allowing that maybe Hall was being cautious. Anyway, Alec would be near him tomorrow for shooting. When he went back out into the night’s heavy rain, he intended to return straight to his room in the gamekeeper’s cottage, but, unable to help himself, he detoured by the Russet Room window. Just as he did so, the curtains parted above, and there was Hall. The man stared off into the park, into the rain. As before, he seemed troubled. He sighed. Then he did something strange: he slapped his own face with his right hand, as if trying to startle or even punish himself. Was something wrong? Should Alec call out? Would he be angry? Then the curtains closed, and Hall was gone. For the second time that day, Alec was soaked. He did not return to his room, though. Instead he went to the boathouse. It was leaky, much worse than the drawing room, but he thought of the place as his own. He wanted only his solitude. He took off the wet clothes, wrapped himself in the blanket he’d bought for Argentina, and huddled in the corner that he’d padded with cushions from the old rowboat. The blanket dried him and contained his warmth against his flesh. He listened to the rain—on the roof, on the pond. There was no reason for hope, but reason was beside the point. Next morning, during two hours of shooting rabbits, Hall said n...

He saw a play of two men’s shadows on the closed curtains. He recognized Hall at once, but who was up there with him? Simcox? Then Alec knew it was Durham. Again, jealousy took hold of him. Would they embrace? Alec thought to fire his rifle. That would startle them apart. The shadows drew closer to each other. Alec aimed toward the sky. But before he pulled the trigger, they separated, and then Durham’s shadow was gone. Alec lowered the shotgun. He was weeping and did not know why. The rain washed the salt of his tears back into his eyes, stinging them. Then immediately the curtains upstairs were pulled open, the sash thrown wide, and Hall appeared, the downpour soaking his hair. He looked wild, troubled. “Come!” he suddenly yelled toward the sky. Just as suddenly he drew back, slammed shut the window, and closed the curtains. The outburst shocked Alec more than his gunshot would have shaken the night. He walked away—not to his room, but to the boathouse, to stay alone again. Last night there’d been hope, but tonight his emotions were desperate, his lust urgent, fired by the day’s close contact. His senses—sight, hearing, smell—could conjure Hall now. He imagined his eyes, his voice, his warmth. Toward dawn a plan took shape: He’d suggest that Hall come to the pond to swim. He’d accompany the gentleman there, as he had others when they swam. But he’d strip naked himself as he’d never done and join Hall in the water. Surely the man would like what he saw. And if not, so wha...

Why should any man believe he had the right to hound another about religion? Servitude, there was the reason. In the eyes of the Durhams—and Borenius too—the lower classes (embodied in their servants) were children, prone to misbehavior and not to be trusted with their own lives. Alec thought he should set the vicar straight and tell him he attended St. Simon’s on Sunday mornings not for his own sake or his employers’ demands, but because Mr. Ayers, whom he liked, had said it would please him. He found it easier to accommodate the honest old fellow than to let him down. As for confirmation—that was something else, a matter of will, of active consent on his part as an adult. Holy Mother Church was free enough with her abominating and execrating the likes of Alec. Confirmed in such beliefs? The rabid old sow could fuck herself first. “Sir,” Alec said, “I’m to unpack the cricket things and clean them for tomorrow’s match, if you might excuse me just now.” “Yes, go; I’ll see what can be done and we’ll talk again soon.” Alec left quickly. The evening had rattled him. First, meeting Hall in the garden, where the man’s gentleness had undone his resolve. Then, inviting him to swim and setting himself up for rejection. And now Borenius, trying to snag him just before he was about to break free … Alec was hurrying through the front shrubbery when he walked smack into someone and caught hold of his elbows for balance: it was Hall. Alec was startled not just by the run-in, but also by...

Hall locked the door; when he returned, he stood at the foot of the bed, naked, aroused, unsure. He looked at Alec shyly and in silence, seeming not only to offer himself, but to seek permission, even approval. The sheet was tangled across Alec’s middle; he pulled it away. Maurice smiled at the welcome, lay beside him, warmed him with his embrace, and nestled his face against Alec’s neck, his breath like a wordless whisper. He touched the head of Alec’s cock and showed him the droplet on his fingertip. He wiped it on his own cheek. Alec found Maurice’s lips with his own and parted them gently, the way Van had taught him, with the edge of his tongue. Later, spent again, they slept. At first they rolled apart, as if their newfound intimacy harassed them, but toward morning a movement began, and they woke deep in each other’s arms. Off in the distance, the bell of St. Simon’s struck. Maurice’s head lay heavily on Alec’s chest. Alec remained still, as much to cherish his own contentment as to protect his lover’s repose.

Back in his room, Alec lay down on the bed where he realized he’d not slept for three nights. His flesh glowed—satisfied, pleasantly sore. The two of them were little experienced—Maurice, to Alec’s surprise, even less so than himself. At moments they were clumsy or rough: they bruised each other with their passion. No matter, even the awkwardness made him happy. In his own eyes he had acted with courage, maybe for the first time since becoming a servant. He was the one who’d pursued, kept watch, climbed the ladder, risked getting caught, or worse—rejected, punished, disgraced. He was the hero of their night together. And he was very happy with Maurice, with the beauty his face revealed when close to his own, with his strength, his ardor, his wish to keep Alec in his arms, to please him: You mustn’t call me sir … I’m called Maurice. You’re going abroad … Alec now asked himself why. Surely not for “getting ahead,” like Fred. Wasn’t it rather for the kind of freedom he’d just tasted? To be one with a man of his choosing, who, like him, wanted a friend, Nothing else but just “my friend,” he trying to help you and you, him. A friend, someone to last your whole life and you, his …

there was something nuptial about Alec’s happiness. He was going to see Maurice; they would meet in the daylight, in the eyes of the park and the village; they would play together on the same team, these two who had spent the night breaking the law by loving each other. Did you ever dream you had a friend, Alec? Morgan had made him a gentlemanly gift for his trip: a box of sandalwood soaps from Fortnum & Mason. He’d stored them away, but now he unpacked a cake and, rather than wake up the household by filling the bathtub, went to the boathouse to bathe. When he took off his shirt, he still could smell Maurice. He inhaled deeply, happily. And he smiled when he saw their spunk, dried on his belly and legs, on his chest and shoulders, plenty of it, all mixed together. He hooted and jumped into the pond where the stream fed it fresh, scrubbed himself from head to toe, then again, imagining what wicked fun they’d have if Maurice was here with him.

The squire soon called Alec back into the match and left the field for the house, “to resume his campaigning,” as the park team was told. Was he inside now with Maurice? Alec wondered. Then, when he was fielding, Alec saw Durham’s motorcar on the drive that skirted the field. Safe trip, Clive, deary, he said to himself, and do fuck the fuck off! He felt reckless and strong. He stamped his foot on the ground as the auto passed by. The park went on to win the match. Alec was praised, and both teams feted with an outdoor meal.

He went to the boathouse. He opened the slats of the shutters: sunlight patterned the floor like fish bones. He read the address Simcox had given him, not knowing what he would do with it. He lay back in his corner and watched the dust float in the sunbeams. We’ve been very happy … One of the spaniels nosed through the door and came to him. He stroked her silky head. Reason admonished Alec: he’d already been too wild, stealing into the manor last night, to the bed of a man who could have rejected or even betrayed him. It would be still more reckless to write Maurice at his home in that haughty suburb. To write would test their relationship. Could it survive outside a moldy bedroom in a decrepit country house? To write would also test Maurice, and himself even more. The pain of rejection would belong only to him, since Maurice held the power to hurt, accorded not only by money and class, but also by Alec’s own yearning. Why risk it? Why not cherish the memory of their night together, keep busy for the next ten days, and set sail? Still in his white cricket clothes, the trousers now stained reddish on the right leg, where he’d rubbed the ball, he walked to the village with the spaniel. There he sent Maurice this wire: COME BACK, WAITING TONIGHT AT BOATHOUSE, PENGE, ALEC.

At dawn, Alec told himself he had sent the telegram too late. The message likely missed the last post to Maurice’s house, but he would surely receive it this morning. He went about his work quietly and apprehensively, hoping he might hear from Maurice, fearing he would not. He avoided the younger servants, who were eager to josh him about the game. When the Mildreds offered a prize for victory, he said he hadn’t the time, too busy getting things ready for his trip. At day’s end, still no word. He reasoned that Maurice had not replied because a message addressed in his hand to Alec might attract attention. He’d best come unannounced. At nightfall, he returned to the boathouse to wait. Chance, or nature, had mated the young men so perfectly that, even after one night together, their separation was painful to Alec; his flesh remembered Maurice’s, vividly, palpably, as if he were actually present. When he turned onto his belly during his fitful sleep, he came so hard that it hurt and he woke up groaning. Before dawn, desolate, he wrote again: Mr. Maurice, Dear Sir. I waited both nights in the boathouse. I said the boathouse as the ladder is taken away and the woods is to damp to lie down. So please come to “the boathouse” tomorrow night or next, pretend to the other gentlemen you want a stroll, easily managed, then come down to the boathouse. Dear Sir, let me share with you once before leaving Old England if it is not asking to much. I have key, will let in. I leave per Ss Nor...

Afternoon passed and evening followed, and nothing from Maurice. Why did this hurt so badly? Such risk he’d taken to offer himself to Maurice! He’d been welcomed eagerly, even gratefully. Now shunned. Why? In body and mind, in their passion for each other, they were equals. The force of this pain shocked him: he could feel it just there in his gut. Would it ever ease? Could he do nothing to help himself? He started another letter: Mr. Hall, Mr. Borenius has just spoke to me. Sir, you do not treat me fairly. I am sailing next week, per s.s. Normannia. I wrote you I am going, it is not fair you never write to me. I come of a respectable family, I don’t think it fair to treat me like a dog. My father is a respectable tradesman. I am going to be on my own in the Argentine. You say, “Alec, you are a dear fellow”; but you do not write. It felt good to chide Maurice, but still his words had no force. He wrote and underlined: I know about you and Mr. Durham. Let Maurice squirm. Yes, that was good. Still, he could feel tears rising as he wrote: Why do you say “call me Maurice,” and then treat me so unfairly?

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was resorting to helpless reproaches again. Then he was inspired. Why wait upon Maurice, like a lackey, when he could take action himself: Mr. Hall, I am coming to London Tuesday. If you do not want me at your home say where in London, you had better see me—I would make you sorry for it. There—yes! Let him try to explain why this servant had come to call at his house as boldly as a client or friend. Why not go to London? Why should his life be stalled in this helplessness? He would compel Maurice to see him. Sir, nothing of note has occurred since you left Penge. Cricket seems over, some of the great trees has lost some of their leaves, which is very early. Has Mr. Borenius spoken to you about certain girls? I can’t help being rather rough, it is some men’s nature, but you should not treat me like a dog. It was before you came. It is natural to want a girl, you cannot go against human nature. Mr. Borenius found out about the girls through the new communion class. He has just spoken to me. I have never come like that to a gentleman before. Were you annoyed at being disturbed so early? Sir, it was your fault, your head was on me. I had my work, I was Mr. Durham’s servant, not yours. I am not your servant. I will not be treated as your servant, and I don’t care if the world knows it. He had finally got to the heart of it. I AM NOT YOUR SERVANT. I WILL NOT BE TREATED AS YOUR SERVANT. He concluded: I will show respect where it’s d...

Alec jerked away from Maurice and muttered, “That’s all right … I won’t trouble you now.” “Where are you going with your serious charge?” said Maurice, suddenly formidable. “Couldn’t say.” He looked back at Maurice, whose coloring stood out against the stone heroes, perfect but bloodless, who had never known such bewilderment or infamy as Alec did now. He realized what a fool he’d been to imagine this splendid man could care for him, and more of a fool to plot to force him to do so. “Don’t you worry—I’ll never harm you now, you’ve too much pluck.” “Pluck be damned,” said Maurice, with a plunge into anger. “It’ll all go no further—” He slapped his own mouth, as Maurice had done in the rain at the Russet Room window. “I don’t know what came over me, Mr. Hall. I don’t want to harm you. I never did.” “You blackmailed me.” “No sir, no…” “You did.” “Maurice, listen, I only—” “Maurice, am I?” “You called me Alec … I’m as good as you.” “I don’t find you are!” There was a pause before the storm; then he burst out: “By God, if you’d split on me to Mr. Ducie, I’d have broken you. It might have cost me hundreds, but I’ve got them, and the police always back my sort against yours. You don’t know. We’d have got you into quod, for blackmail, after which—I’d have blown out my brains.” “Killed yourself? Death?” “I should have known by that time that I loved you.” With these words, the rows of old statues seemed to totter before their eyes. Maurice added quietly, “Too late … everything’s al...

“You mean that you and I shan’t meet again after now.” Pierced by Maurice’s sadness, Alec could not bring himself to face him, so he played cocky. “That’s right. You’ve got it quite correct.” And if it wasn’t still raining! Wet morning after yesterday’s downpour, wet on the roofs and the museum, at home and on the greenwood. Maurice said, “This is just what I want to talk about. Why don’t we arrange so as we do meet again?” “How do you mean?” “Why don’t you stay on in England?” Alec felt the floor drop away from under his feet. Terrified, he whizzed around and snarled, “Stay? Miss my boat, are you daft? Of all the bloody rubbish I ever heard. Ordering me about again, eh, you would.” He was struggling to escape to someplace familiar and safe, where Maurice was a toff who believed it his birthright to command such a menial as Alec and was therefore worthy of contempt. But Maurice would not follow him there, indeed could not, because for him such a place no longer existed: “It’s a chance in a thousand we’ve met, we’ll never have the chance again and you know it. Stay with me. We love each other.” Alec closed his eyes. We love each other. Not a confession, but rather a statement of fact. Maurice was speaking for both of them with an authority Alec had no wish to deny. He tried to escape once more, to argue from reason, or at least practicality, but it all sounded childish and false: “I dessay, but that’s no excuse to act silly. Stay with you, and how and where?” He picked up t...

The little train did its duty. At Penge he walked from the station through quiet fields. He entered the estate at its lower end, through a gap in the hedge. Squirrels scuttled above in the trees. He hoped to meet no one who might ask why he was there. The morning was gray, but quick-moving clouds signaled change. The sun had broken through by the time he reached the pond and the water reflected its splendor. In these last days, the park seemed more silent to him than it had before his visit to London. Even the songbirds, their mating season long past, were quiet. Light pierced the gaping shingles of the boathouse, which stood dark against the water and derelict, like all the buildings of Penge. Yet here was where love (he could call it so now, freely) had taught him to suffer. The trysting place, he’d once hoped, whose only key he, for no particular reason, always carried. He would return that key now. We’ll meet in your boathouse yet … He opened the wide double doors. Light scattered the shadows inside. There in his corner were cushions from the rowboat, as he’d placed them just so, waiting long nights for Maurice. The air was warm, damp, steaming in the sun. Silence and solitude had quieted his mind. He became aware that his skin felt strangely delightful, but he could not name the cause of the sensation. He hugged himself and closed his eyes. He opened them on what he would remember all his life as a vision: there, in the water, perched on a floating branch, a bird hard...

Meantime, can you come to a concert with me next Friday?” The concert with Morgan was the first public event the lovers attended together. Alec reveled in being out and about with his two favorite people on earth. He wedged himself between them and took each one’s arm. He led them in a game of sidling along the streets to keep their link unbroken. The autumn dusk redeemed the city’s ugliness, spangling the air with uncountable points of light: gaslight and incandescence, streetlamps, signs, windows, headlamps of cabs and trolleys. And the people! Here were thousands of young folks, away from their deadening jobs, as eager for fun as Alec, on their way to a meal or a dance or a show. As for Maurice, nothing made him happier than seeing Alec happy. That was his nature as lover. He had been to this concert hall before, on a date with one of his sister’s schoolmates, fairly recently (though before he knew Alec, so it seemed long in the past). He remembered he’d heard Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique Symphony. The music was special to him because of Clive. The night they’d first met at Cambridge, Clive was looking for a piano version of the symphony in another student’s rooms. When he found it, they went back to Clive’s to listen to the second movement together. That marked the beginning of their friendship. The student who owned the music would also become important to Maurice’s education: endlessly talkative, brashly queer Octavian Risley took delight in provoking those he believed h...

pedagogical /ˌpedəˈɡäjək(ə)l/ I. adjective relating to teaching • innovative pedagogical methods. II. derivatives pedagogically /pedəˈɡäjiklē / adverb Pedagogy (/ˈpɛdəɡɒdʒi, -ɡoʊdʒi, -ɡɒɡi/), most commonly understood as the approach to teaching, is the theory and practice of learning, and how this process influences, and is influenced by, the social, political, and psychological development of learners. Pedagogy, taken as an academic discipline, is the study of how knowledge and skills are imparted in an educational context, and it considers the interactions that take place during learning. Both the theory and practice of pedagogy vary greatly as they reflect different social, political, and cultural contexts.[1] Detail of a scene in the bowl of the letter 'P' with a woman with a set-square and dividers; using a compass to measure distances on a diagram. In her left hand she holds a square, an implement for testing or drawing right angles. She is watched by a group of students. Woman teaching geometry (detail of a 14th-century illuminated manuscript, at the beginning of Euclid's Elementa, in the translation attributed to Adelard of Bath) Pedagogy is often described as the act of teaching.[2] The pedagogy adopted by teachers shapes their actions, judgments, and teaching strategies by taking into consideration theories of learning, understandings of students and their needs, and the backgrounds and interests of individual students.[3][4] Its aims may range from furthering liberal education (the general development of human potential) to the narrower specifics of vocational education (the imparting and acquisition of specific skills). Instructive strategies are governed by the pupil's background knowledge and experience, situation and environment, as well as learning goals set by the student and teacher. One example would be the Socratic method.

There was no winning in this upside-down time when the old were burying their young.

Staff Corporal Ivanhoe Blunt had mastered the art of Wearing the Uniform. His tunic, detailed in red, was meant for headquarters, not battle, and had been tailored to ensure that it glorified the fine figure it covered. He was a regular at the Chabanais, also a favorite. His allure was so good for business that the proprietress often welcomed him herself. He now guided Alec to a couple of chairs in a quiet anteroom where they could drink and talk. Van had put off enlisting for service as long as possible. “I’d the farm to run,” he said, “and my own poppet Phyllis to dandle, still toddlin’ and ploppin’ down on her sweet behind. Why should I abandon the land that my people took generations to gain? To fight the family feuds of our Johnny-come-lately overlords, the Saxe-Coburgs, and their fuckin’ German kindred?” Only when Van could see no way to dodge the impending draft did he sign on, grudgingly. “Oh, I fumed for days. Leave me alone, is all I was askin’, to guard my own house from the Hun, not to die like a rat in some Belgian ditch.” When he did volunteer, he did so with one intention paramount: to survive the war by any means and survive it intact. “I’ve a child and a home to live for. And Mabel, the best woman in the world, she’s too young to be makin’ her way in the world as a widow with a fatherless babe, or, should I be maimed, to spend her life luggin’ a useless cripple of a husband back and forth to the toilet.” In the army, he soon learned to make the most of his...

When relief came at last, it was unwelcome. In February 1917, Private Scudder was granted five days’ leave to attend his father’s funeral. As mother and son followed the coffin from their cottage to St. Osmund’s church, Alec’s heart lurched between grief and rage. “Da! Couldn’t you’ve waited?” he thought. “Just till after the war? There’s too much dyin’! With me gone and Fred too, how will Ma endure?” Aderyn leaned heavily against him as they walked arm in arm along barren lanes. She was getting old and before long would likely need care. Fred arrived from Argentina on the last day of Alec’s leave. Even though their time together was short, the brothers found an hour to bicker behind the closed door of their old bedroom. Fred blamed Alec: “If you’d sailed with me as you’d promised, instead of chasin’ after your grand Mr. Hall, you’d be livin’ safe overseas, likely married and settled. Ma and Da would have followed you and we could all take care of her now.” “Great prognosticator, ain’t you, Freddy?” “It’s true! Didn’t she tell me as much? They’d have followed me and Jane but for you stayin’ here. And once you’d enlisted, that was that. On no, they wouldn’t leave you behind. It was frettin’ for you that hastened his death, and seein’ how she fretted too.” “Did I ask for this fuckin’ war? What do you think I’m fightin’ for? I’ll tell you what for: it’s so’s you insurance purveyors can enjoy your easy life in the colonies.” “One’s got nothin’ to do with the other.” “You’re bl...

Despite the protests, things worsened for the military. England was now dispatching underage boys into battle, kids from the slums so needy they would lie about their birth dates for the sake of a meal and some clothes. And the army pretended to believe them. One of them approached Alec: “Mr. Scudda?” “No need for ‘Mister,’ I’m a soldier just like you.” The boy accepted the cigarette Alec offered. “But that’s ’ow we knew ya back then. We always called ya Mr. Scudda, and the gent was Mr. ’All.” “Whazzat—?” “Foo’ball, sir, of a Saturday afternoon, in the city, a’ the mission ’ouse.” Alec searched the boy’s features. “Not Billy Wrenn?” He grinned. His teeth had green streaks; still, the smile lighted his face. “Ya remember, then? Good fun, wa’n’t it? Yer a fuckin’ disaster a’ foo’ball.” Alec laughed. “True enough! But Billy, how could it be? That was but five years ago—the lot of you seemed no more than tykes to me then. You can’t be old enough—” He winked and said, “Sshh!” Alec judged him sixteen at most, likely younger. He smoked and spat and blustered and swore and gulped his tot of rum, but he had no need to shave, and he struggled under the weight of rifle and gear. Alec wondered how he would ever manage to wield a bayonet, should it come to hand-to-hand fighting. He tried to watch out for the boy. One chilly night in October they found themselves neighbors in the trench, positioned a few yards apart. Alec was wrapped in his blanket on his sleep-shelf, about three feet a...

He woke in terror—he could see only darkness. It was the wool of his sleeve. He’d covered his eyes with his arm in sleep. He sat up too fast; that made him feel dizzy, sickish. The smoke from the vineyards was gone. How long had he slept? Hours, to judge by the sun. Midafternoon now, and he’d missed the train back to Marseille. He’d have to wait at the station again. About to start on his way toward town, he heard splashing and noticed someone else’s belongings at the edge of the rocks. A tall boy climbed out of the sea—sixteen or seventeen, naked and handsome, with dark hair and wide shoulders, his skin ruddy brown from last summer’s swimming. He dried himself with his shirt and called out to another. A second boy stumbled onto the rocks from the water, likewise naked, but shorter and slight, with curly hair and a mischievous grin. He dried himself with the first one’s shirttails—no reason both their shirts should get wet. The taller one swatted at him and lay down. Schoolboys. Copybooks among their dark clothes. Lads: that’s how officers spoke of their men. Too young by just a year, he guessed, to have been conscripted for even the end of the war. How he envied them, their limbs lithe and smooth, braving the threat of a chill to be naked together in the sun on this fine fall day. The taller one wanted his friend to lie with him. The shorter had put on his glasses, noticed that Alec was awake, and warned the other with a glance. The tall one half raised himself up to look...

“J’ai besoin d’une chambre pour la nuit.”

“I need a room for the night…”

Though he’d told the baroness he held no false hopes, writing to her had made him hopeful. To ask for news meant there might be some to give. Word of Maurice’s death would not be news. Reason told him Maurice must be dead. So the only real news must be good news. He thought about others he might write to, like Morgan. But suppose Morgan hadn’t returned from the war. Then wouldn’t it pain his mother to receive a letter addressed to him? He even thought of writing to Mrs. Hall, whom he’d never met and who likely had never heard his name. He would say he’d worked for her son before the war and esteemed him and wished to inquire … No, he couldn’t do that either. He was stalled. He was anxious all the time and couldn’t shake it off. It felt like wartime jitters, but at the front there’d been a reason, and the pain would ease up when he was out of the noise of the guns. Now there was no respite, and having nothing to pin it on made it worse, so he got anxious about feeling anxious. Sometimes, when the church on the square was empty, he’d sit in a pew and try to be still. The mural behind the altar showed Joan of Arc and her soldiers, the girl in silvery armor, her banner white, with fleurs-de-lis. He could lose himself for a few minutes there. But then he’d remember the reality of battle, so unlike the pretty scene, and the anguish would return, and he’d need to get moving. Today he walked to the White Rocks. And who should he see there but those two schoolboys, the lovers he’d ...

Alec read: 6 Jan 1917 I’d always found writing a chore. But not to you. Because when I’m writing to you you’re here with me, the two of us together, alone with each other. I made that discovery when I started writing you on the ship sailing to you-know-where. Even though there was no chance of privacy at all, when I wrote to you I was alone with you. Maybe that’s why after all the misery, madness, drugs, being tied up and talked down to, or talked over as if I neither heard nor understood nor was even in the room, it actually made me feel happy to get this journal back, which they’d kept with the belongings of the other MIAs. I’d forgot what happiness felt like. So when I felt it, I wept and laughed at once. That was dandy with the medics because it confirmed their erudite diagnosis that I was crazy. Which I was. But they didn’t know that getting back my battered copybook with the torn cover and script so smudged and crabbed that only I (and you) could read it was like being with you again! He looked up from the notebook. Maurice was sleeping, spread-eagled across their bed. For a couple of days they’d hardly gone out, making love again and again. They were staying not in the hotel but in Alec’s room, right over the water. The same sea, he thought, that had nearly drowned Maurice now soothed his sleep with its gentle lapping. He went back to reading: 7 Jan 17 When they finally ID-ed me, they danced a jig, I’m told, because then it was official: the evacuation had been effe...

Alec sat on the bed and read the letter again. He closed his eyes and pictured his father writing … Where would he have sat? At that little table in Alec’s old room? Yes! Where his schoolboy son had worked equations and drawn triangles and identified parts of speech. He pictured his father, hunched, his rough large hand guiding a pen in the delicate task of forming words on paper, giving shape to a passion beyond words, that of his fatherhood. Alec kissed the letter. He said aloud, to no one, “I want to be buried with this.” And for the second time in his life, the knowledge of being loved overwhelmed him. The first time, when the kingfisher danced near the boathouse at Penge, the knowledge had washed over him like water, like the rain on the pond, cleansing him of his doubts and freeing him to trust Maurice and to stay in England to make their love real. This second time, in spite of the cottage’s dust and shadow, the knowledge came as light. The light revealed that he was loved to his core, also that he had done nothing to earn or merit such love, but that it was love’s nature to love.

“She’s with child,” Maurice told him in their room at Millthorpe. Alec made no reply. He watched the rain on the greening hills through the window. Then he asked, “Is she well?” “Healthy, you mean?” “Yeah, comfortable?” “Far as I can tell. She didn’t complain of any illness. Her face is quite serene, even radiant.” “Ah…” “But she’s troubled, very…” “Of course.” “There’s the marriage thing.” “The father’s dead?” “No, alive.” “Oh? Then he’s got to—” “He’s married.” “Oh…” Alec shifted in the old overstuffed armchair. “Even so, there’s a duty on his part—” “Alec, the man’s … not English.” “Catholic, you mean, so he can’t divorce?” “No. Oh Lord…” “…?” “He’s Indian.” Alec’s eyes widened: “From India?” “Yes, an Indian officer, with a wife and two kids in Madras—wounded in France. She was caring for him shortly before the armistice. He’s returned home and knows nothing about the child. She does not intend to tell him.” Alec let out a long breath: “Indian…” “That’s right.” “So he’s—” “Yes, colored. As the child will be—” In his mind (in a flash), an imp drove Alec through a gauntlet, where other imps (with ugly little faces, some wearing monocles, others tiaras) cudgeled him not with clubs but with the English language’s array of hateful words about the pregnant woman and her paramour. He held his tongue till his mind escaped into his father’s arms, so to speak, into the embrace of the letter he was carrying in his jacket pocket near his heart. Finally he said, “We need to help her...

Nurse Hall, now that she had nothing to hide from her brother, readily agreed to meet again. She suggested a tea parlor in the Abbeydale section of Sheffield, near St. John’s Red Cross Hospital. Alec waited in a park around the corner, where raw drizzle was yielding to sunshine so warm that the hyacinths seemed to open while he looked at them. Alec had prevailed in their dispute by reminding Maurice of his own courage, of the night when he’d taken leave of Clive Durham and told the squire frankly that he loved the gamekeeper. That was that. No second thoughts, no hesitating for fear of possible consequences. He’d simply spoken the truth. “But family…,” Maurice protested, “complicates everything. Besides, much as you dislike him, Clive’s a gentleman and so I could trust him to be straight up in our quarrel and not try to knife me in the back later.” “All right, then, let’s be gentlemanly ourselves.” “How so?” “Judgin’ from what you tell me, Miss Hall is likewise someone to be trusted—I mean that a lady like her should choose, choose, out of a sense of duty or kindliness or great-heartedness, to slop around in hospitals and tend the sick and wounded and dyin’. That’s fuckin’ noble, if you ask me, even heroic. And now she’s been truthful with her brother, though she might rather have done otherwise.” “But—” “Granted, she had little choice in the circumstances. But that accords you the chance to speak the truth in return, freely, by no force of necessity.” So they were here to...

As they walked to the train from Kitty’s rooms, Maurice told Alec about their talk in the tea parlor. “She said she’s amazed to learn of you and me, but by no means upset, much less scandalized. ‘Why are you amazed?’ I asked her. ‘Because you always seemed such a conformist,’ she said.” Alec chuckled: “Not since I climbed in your window.” “She makes a good case that tending the wounded is like being wounded yourself, maybe worse, time and again, with no chance for healing, always another casualty. Good God, she’s witnessed so much misery! And suffered plenty of her own. Anyway, she says she welcomes love any way it manifests. ‘It’s the enemy of war,’ she says. So she’s glad for us.” “Now, that is amazing.” “Yes. When I hear her talk like that, I can understand how the baby came about.” On the train, Maurice and Alec each kept to his own thoughts. Alec reluctantly acknowledged to himself that he’d been afraid to meet Maurice’s sister, of how she might look down on him. But in the face of her hardship, he now renounced such emotion as unmanly, selfish, silly. Maurice stared out the window, elbow on the armrest, chin on fist. Alec spoke up when they were approaching Millthorpe: “Can you see a way forward?” Maurice shook his head. “I was just thinking about breaking this news to Mother and Ada and my aunt…” He shuddered.

“I won’t be stopping long in England.” “No?” “I’m setting things in order for my mother—property, finances, getting the right help for her—but I don’t plan to stay. This country wants to destroy us. It’s dangerous, worse than you know. I finally learned why no one had heard from me for so long. Early on, I’d written Teddy some cautious words about Mohammed, but not cautious enough. The army decided I was a pervert, so they started withholding my letters, even to my mother. “Before the war, before Mohammed, I might have endured England’s slow suffocation. No longer. I’ve changed. I’m leaving. For India. I’ve been recommended for a job with one of the minor rajas. He’s a delightful fellow, wants an Englishman to work for him, to bring his family up-to-date, and his realm. Maybe you’d consider a visit.” A candle guttered out. “Am I keeping you up too late?” “No, not a bit. But please, while we’re here, just us two, could you help me sort through some things in my head?” Morgan listened. He gave no advice. Rather, he asked questions of his young friend. The most perplexing to Alec was also the simplest: “What do you truly want, what’s your deepest desire?” Alec hesitated: “I can’t say…” “That doesn’t surprise me at all. Many people can’t. Most, I believe. Oh, they might say something vague like, I want to help others. But in truth they’re afraid to ask themselves the question. Or maybe they don’t know they’re allowed to. Not you, though. And, Alec, when you can name that desir...

In the foyer of her house on Bedford Square, Maurice and Alec encountered another guest, about to depart, whom Alec recognized and greeted. “Oh yes!” said Madame Mardash. “I remember you. Who could forget such a kindly face? Thank God you’ve survived, dear boy. My heart breaks these days, dozens of families coming to me, hoping they might speak to sons who’ve died. But for you I recall feeling a certain confidence that night, because the Hanged Man had just turned up when you did—” Then she seemed to recognize Maurice. “You were also there, sir.” “No, ma’am.” “But surely—you must recall—such a vibrant soiree—I had an awful cold—and you were with your friend, standing by him, as close as you are now.” “That’s impossible. I was serving in the Dardanelles.” She closed her eyes. “I see.” She opened them. “Someone very much like you, then, but older, considerably, in civilian clothes. An uncle, your father?” The baroness entered from the hall and interrupted: “Roxana, I assure you, Mr. Scudder was alone that night. It must have been another guest you saw with him.” She greeted her young friends. But Maurice was intrigued by the clairvoyante and wished to answer her question. He said to her, “I’ve no uncles, ma’am, and my father died more than twenty years ago.” “Ah…” Madame Mardash closed her eyes once more. She smiled and opened them: “Then perhaps it was he.” She bade them goodbye.