Speak Its Name Read online

  Speak Its Name

  An Anthology

  by

  Charlie Cochrane

  Lee Rowan

  Erastes

  Bristlecone Pine Press * Portland, Maine

  Three stories, six men and for all of them, a love that dare not Speak Its Name.

  Aftermath by Charlie Cochrane

  The time: 1920. The place: Oxford University. Since arriving at the college in the autumn, Edward Easterby has admired, and desired, popular and dashing Hugo Lamont from afar, never believing he had a chance for friendship—or more—with the man. Edward uses a chance, unfortunate encounter as a moment for an apology and a tentative conversation. Hugo, wary and guarded from a previous, unsatisfying liaison, slowly lets his defences down and opens his heart to the budding relationship between them. Poetic and beautifully written, Aftermath will stay with you long after Edward and Hugo’s picnic basket has been packed away.

  Gentleman’s Gentleman by Lee Rowan

  Lord Robert Scoville seemingly has it all: good looks, intelligence, a successful military career, a title, and the most devoted manservant anyone could ask for in the form of Jack Darling. Jack would give his life for his lord and master but dares not breathe a word of the love he feels for the man, lest his advances be rejected. Then, a clandestine assignment, a train journey, and a double-crossing opens both their eyes to what exists between them. Against a backdrop of the Alps and Vienna, this intriguing story combines a satisfying blend of clever mystery along with the romance of a newly-discovered, mature love.

  Hard and Fast by Erastes

  Major Geoffrey Chaloner is back from the war, possessed of all his limbs but not a wife, a situation his father is determined to change. Demure but painfully shy Emily Pelham is presented as the potential bride-to-be. While Geoffrey finds her pleasant, he discovers he is far more intrigued with her moody and baffling cousin, Adam Heyward. In the midst of a proper courtship complete with hovering chaperones and parents, Adam manages to awaken feelings and emotions in Geoffrey that he never knew he possessed. Marked by Erastes’ signature writing style, this lyrical novella is laced with humor, magnificent descriptions, and a bit of a twist that leaves the reader satisfied but still wanting more.

  Contents

  Aftermath

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Gentleman’s Gentleman

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Hard and Fast

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Authors

  About Bristlecone Pine Press

  Aftermath

  CHARLIE COCHRANE

  Chapter One

  “Mr. Easterby. Mr. Easterby, sir!” The porter’s voice cut through the cold morning as piercingly as the creak from the college gate had done. Early March, 1920 and spring seemed to be taking forever to arrive, as if it, too, still mourned for the flowers of manhood that had been trampled into the mud of Flanders Field.

  Edward Easterby turned to see Cranmer College’s newest porter waving something at him. “Can I help you, Mr. Marsh?” he enquired in his usual polite tone. One of the few engaging qualities about this young student was the way he treated everyone—porters, scouts, shopkeepers—with the same degree of respect as he would do a fellow Oxford undergraduate. It made him, if not popular with them all, at least respected— something that wouldn’t have naturally occurred given his generally brooding and anti-social nature.

  “I believe that this is yours, sir.” Marsh held out an engraved silver cigarette case, handsomely made but not of the very highest quality. “Someone found it by the lodge.”

  Easterby smiled, a genuine, happy smile, not like the ones he produced when he had to make an effort to entertain people. “Well it is and it isn’t, Mr. Marsh. It belongs to my grandfather—our initials are the same. He must have dropped it when he was visiting yesterday. I’ll take it and return it to him.”

  The porter smiled, too, which unsettled Easterby. The college usually discouraged such familiarity but Marsh seemed determined to make a point. “I hope he hasn’t missed it, I wouldn’t like the gentleman to be without something so precious.” This was more forward than was acceptable in a college employee, and Easterby grimaced at the familiarity. He didn’t appreciate this boldness and suspected the inhabitants of the porters’ lodge had been gossiping about the meaning of the message engraved on the case, a seemingly insignificant phrase that was full of importance to the family.

  Easterby would make no allowance for Marsh being relatively new and not having had all the rough edges rubbed off him yet. Like many another place, Cranmer College had lost a number of its finest men—students, fellows, scouts and porters alike—during the harsh middle years of the decade, when first war and then disease had cut through their ranks. New men had come in as replacements and the college hadn’t yet put her stamp on all of them, but this was intolerable.

  “I’m afraid that my grandfather wouldn’t wish for his private property to be interfered with.” Easterby turned on his heels and left.

  If he’d known what the porters usually said about him, he’d have been even more annoyed. Seems like an overgrown boy was one of the more generous opinions. All fancy thoughts and no common sense was another view, especially among those who’d served with similar men in the war.

  The few women who were allowed into Cranmer saw things differently. They found Easterby rather handsome—he had melancholy eyes that seemed full of strange emotions and dark curls that never could be restrained by brush or macassar oil. He possessed a studious face, firmly masculine in its lines, and they were sure he worked hard at his studies. Bit of a dreamer, though.

  ~

  It wouldn’t have surprised anyone to find that Easterby certainly didn’t possess the common sense he’d been born with, not enough to survive happily in the maelstrom that passed for undergraduate life in Cranmer. He couldn’t even avoid getting totally plastered at the hands of his so-called friends.

  If asked to tell the truth, Easterby would have said he’d never really possessed a close friend in his life. He had acquaintances with whom he would work through difficult problems or discuss esoteric theories—but he had no one whom he’d allowed to get close, not even in his childhood days. Perhaps he was destined to be one of life’s recluses, a man designed only for the cloister, whether it be in a monastery or an Oxford college. Or the madhouse.

  When one of the young men on his staircase invited him for drinks in his set, he’d been surprised—less so when he saw that all the occupants of the staircase were there. He’d made his best efforts to indulge in small talk, but gradually folk had drifted away and he’d been left to contemplate the bookcase, alone again, as he often found himself. Somebody suggested moving on to the college bar, most of those present agreed, and Easterby was swept along by the human current, in the flow of what seemed to be a river of drunkenness.

  One of those who’d egged him on began spiking his drinks at the bar with increasing amounts of alcohol. Easterby took them in all innocence, keeping—he’d thought—to a sensible quantity, unaware of the strength of the brew. By the time he realised what was going on, it was far too late to act. His head spun, all speech and sound around him was dull, his stomach churned and all he sought was fresh air. He wanted to be outside more than he’d ever wanted anything in the world.

/>   Easterby instantly regretted he’d ever made such a wish once he hit the cold air. The universe spun like a mad thing and the reeling that came with it made his stomach contents rise up through his throat. He leant over in the quad, hoping to find some flower bed that might hide his disgrace, but all he found were a pair of well made shoes and those he retched over without delay. Easterby wasn’t sure if it was the shock of realising what he’d done or just getting rid of what was distressing him, but he felt immediately more sober. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve and beginning to mumble an apology, he looked up to see a face that filled him with shame. Hugo Lamont. He had spewed up over Hugo Lamont’s shoes.

  The man was a legend within the college. He was twice a rugby blue; maybe not the finest mind in the History department, but at least expected to pass all his exams with flying colours. And he was as popular with his fellow undergraduates as Easterby was out of favour. What made it so annoying was the fact that he was nice with it, not some arrogant bastard who thought himself above the rest. They held Lamont up as a shining example of all that the students of Cranmer should aspire to, and he never seemed to take advantage of that fact. There had been plenty of times when Easterby had looked at the bloke and simply hated him. There had been other times he’d looked at the bloke and wanted to strip all the clothes off his back.

  “I’m so very sorry.” Easterby couldn’t look Lamont in the eye. They were already a world apart; they’d hardly had any contact in the five months that Easterby had been up, he being a humble, antisocial first year and hardly aspirant to Lamont’s assured position in his second year. Indeed, it was almost as if someone had designed Lamont to be the man’s direct opposite. Smiling where he was surly, an old Etonian to Easterby’s middle class background and schooling; even their looks were a direct contrast of dark and light. Easterby was tall, slimly built and seemed a mass of chocolate brown and ebony tones. Lamont was red-gold and piercing blue, a stocky heap of muscle.

  There had been no reason for their paths to cross directly, up until now. Easterby had only seen this man from afar and admired with envy his easy manner and popularity; it was so unfair that when they did collide it should be in so embarrassing a manner. He mumbled an apology.

  “Think you’ve had a touch too much, young man. If you can’t handle it, you shouldn’t take it.” Lamont’s eyes flickered like sparks arcing. “Suggest you take yourself back to your room before you cause any more damage.” He turned on his rather stained heels, returning five minutes later in clean shoes and socks, only to find Easterby in the place he had left him, still standing and staring into vacancy.

  “Are you ever going to move, or do you propose to puke on all the shoes that pass by?”

  The rising anger in his voice made Easterby flinch. “I’m sorry.” It was all he could say. He didn’t just feel humiliated, he burned with self-reproach at having offended the only person he’d ever found attractive.

  “You’ve said that already—do something about it now. Just go away and leave decent people to get on with their lives.” Lamont stormed off, leaving Easterby alone—a stranger in a society he failed to understand at times. Only one thing he was sure of; he wanted to be Hugo Lamont and not himself. But what was the point of wanting something when there was never any chance of getting it?

  ~

  Any man at Cranmer would have told you that Easterby and Lamont were direct opposites, but the two men had much more in common anyone could have guessed. A student of human nature might have concluded that Easterby disliked himself and that was part of the reason he cut himself off from the world, becoming immersed in his books and experiments, unwilling to expose his weaknesses to public view. Some of those who had been just too young to enlist had a degree of self hatred, unhappy with the good fortune which had enabled them to survive while older brothers or friends had been hung on the barbed wire like washing on a thorn bush. No one knew whether Easterby had lost anyone close or if he would have been the same way irrespective of the Great War. None of them would have guessed that part of the problem was the unnatural—he’d always heard it said it was unnatural—desire he felt for other men.

  A degree of self-hatred; no one said the same of Lamont. He was a popular bon vivant, the life and soul of plenty of parties, but it was true of him, also. He kept his self-repugnance hidden below a veneer of bonhomie and heartiness, a public face that smiled while his private one wept. No one guessed, given that he often had a girl on his arm, the root of his unease—no one saw the girls being given a peck on the cheek and sent off with their hopes dashed. Just like Easterby, Lamont fancied men, and they both burned with shame about it.

  Lamont had known this startling fact from childhood, and no amount of self-persuasion as he’d grown up had moved him. In his first year at Cranmer, wet behind the ears and with no understanding of his own ignorance, he’d even been desperate enough to pick up a hostess from a London club and take her out in his car, the novelty of a ride in such a swanky motor greatly impressing her. His sole determination had been to seduce her, or at least pay her for the privilege of letting him do so. Lamont believed it might cure him, but every kiss they shared simply made him feel sick at the whole process. He had stopped her short, when things had hardly begun, thrust money into her hand and left her to find a cab and make her own way home. The cry that followed him up the street, You some kind of a bleedin’ Nancy boy, then? had added to his misery.

  He hadn’t gone home. He’d gone to a different club, one he’d heard guarded mention of. Here he’d picked up a young man and driven out to somewhere secluded. Lamont had his money’s worth this time—it was the first and last occasion he’d indulged in this particular pleasure, and he remembered it with very little joy but plenty of guilt. Afterwards he took the decision just to repress all his desires, to cultivate an image of cheerfulness and laughter, papering over the cracks of his unhappiness. And he’d succeeded, living an asexual life, disgusted with any desire for contact that he might feel. He particularly disgusted himself with the feelings he nurtured for the dark haired, first year chemistry student who’d appeared in the college the previous October.

  Lamont had watched Easterby from the very first time he saw him at dinner in hall. He’d admired his dignity and bearing, his shyness and solemnity, and he’d wanted to kiss him, hold him and do the sort of disgraceful things that he’d done just the once in his car in a dark lane near Hampstead Heath. It had even made him begin to hate the man, a feeling that spilled out over the shoes incident much as Easterby’s stomach contents had.

  The man’s an idiot, Lamont had thought. Just the sort of little toad that should never be allowed through the college gates. I know that the war affected us all, but why must Cranmer let its standards drop so very low?

  Ironically, he might have detested him even more if he’d known that Easterby felt exactly the same about his own sex, except that he’d never given in, never put his desires into any sort of practice. Lamont would have been mortified to know Easterby had been observing him at that same college dinner and had fallen for the shining crop of hair and the dizzy laugh wafting over the table from five places down—just too far to talk, just too close to ignore. That he’d watched Lamont often since, but had been too shy to chat, didn’t dare make any sort of advance, despised himself for even thinking such things.

  The last thing Hugo Lamont needed was a temptation that might let itself be given into.

  ~

  The morning after Easterby had ended up so slaughtered, the whole college was woken by great crashes of thunder and forks of lightning slashing through the sky. The noise drummed into Lamont’s head and he found he couldn’t return to his slumbers. He contented himself with a pot of tea, a novel and trying to forget about the day before. When the rain had subsided enough to let him venture out, he sauntered to the porters’ lodge to look for his post. Marsh nodded to him, passing the time of day and regretting that the inclement weather had done the unforgivable thing of delaying the mail deliv
ery. Despite that, a single letter was nestled in Lamont’s pigeon hole. He took it back to his set, alight with curiosity.

  Lamont opened the correspondence carefully—recognising neither the hand nor the style of paper. He lifted the envelope to his face and tried to detect if there was any faint hint of perfume or other odour. Defeated, he drew out the sheets and began to read. The immediate anger he felt when, as he always did, he looked at the signature first, dissolved as he read the words. They were stiff, proper, laden with regret and formality. He could imagine the younger man sitting and drawing every word out as if it were a recalcitrant tooth.

  He guessed right. Easterby had indeed drafted and redrafted this letter to so many times that his wastepaper basket had overflowed, his pen needed refilling time and again and his fingers had ended up a mass of black ink.

  Lamont was greatly touched by the strong emotion that seemed to pour out of the carefully chosen words. The letter began with profuse apologies—I should have known better, not fit behaviour for a gentleman—followed by gallantry—I’d be pleased to pay for a replacement pair. He smiled at this, well aware that Easterby couldn’t have the foggiest idea of how much those brogues had cost. Then there was contrition—I hope for forgiveness but I’d understand if this could not be found—finally, hopelessness—I’d understand if you wished to have no further communication. The matter of the new shoes can be negotiated by a go-between.

  Lamont put down the letter with a sigh. If it had been just about anyone else in the college, then he could have forgiven him easily enough, with a laugh and a drink. With Easterby, this seemed impossible. To approach the man, even in reply to this painful letter, would be inviting danger. Were they to be alone together, Lamont might find he couldn’t control his emotions. He’d managed to do so before, in some fairly strained circumstances, with other people he’d found attractive, but the intense desire he felt for this young man, desire that was strangely ignited again by this letter, might be beyond his ability to keep in check.