Free Midwinter Manor 2 -Keeper's Pledge by JL Merrow

Danny, could tell him he wasn’t getting enough fresh air and exercise lately.
    “So tiresome, these short days,” Matthew said, as they stepped out into the garden. “I’ve been dying to see more of the estate, and…
    “…all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.”
He linked his arm through Philip’s.
    Philip was, for a moment, struck quite dumb. It was so like the way Robert used to be with him—the poetry, the tone, the easy familiarity. It was quite an effort to recall himself to the present. “I—yes, of course. Although I’m afraid you won’t find any ‘steepy mountains’ on the estate. Or valleys, for that matter. We’ve woods and fields galore, of course, and I think we can manage a small hill.”
    “Don’t worry. I shan’t quibble on grounds of size,” Matthew murmured.
Philip’s cheeks grew hot, the cheap innuendo reminding him Matthew and Robert were not, after all, as alike as all that. He coughed. “Do you have a favorite poet? I’ve always been very fond of Marvell myself.”
    “Oh, I adore Marvell. ‘Alas! How pleasant are their days, with whom the infant love yet plays! Sorted by pairs, they still are seen by fountains cool and shadows green.’”
“You speak the verse very well,” Philip praised him cautiously.
    “Thank you. Lord, it’s good to be appreciated for once. Frederick, as I’m sure you can imagine, is something of a Philistine. How about one of the Bard’s contemporaries?
    “Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp ofLove’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.”
    Philip was spellbound. True, Matthew tended toward the overdramatic, but there was a seductive passion in the way he performed the poem, the way his eyes, his hands, his whole body lent expression to his words. As he’d reached the turn, Matthew had grasped Philip’s hands in his own, echoing the entreaty of the last two lines. Still holding hands, they stared at one another, Matthew’s eyes shining with his fervor. Philip felt his own eyes must be equally so.
“Magnificent,” he breathed.
    D ANNY ’ S chest hurt worse than when he’d cracked his ribs four Christmases ago, falling out of the old oak tree. To watch Philip take a wife—aye, that he could have borne. He’d have known she’d not replace Danny in his affections. But to see him with another man…. He turned away, not knowing if the muffled sound that escaped him was a curse or a sob.
    He should have seen this coming, the moment he’d heard tell of young Matthew Cranmore. Should have known. Here was an educated man, a cultured man, a man of Philip’s own class.
    A man like his lost lover, Robert, dead these past eight years of Spanish flu. And God, the lad was a beauty. Even Danny couldn’t deny that. The recollection of the lad’s face, his smile, was like a knife to Danny’s heart. What the hell would Philip want with a rough, coarse gamekeeper when he could have a boy like that?
    W HEN Danny trudged back to his cottage, his chest tight and aching and his feet weary, it was to find Mam waiting for him in the parlor.
    “What is it, Mam?” he asked, new worries assailing him. He couldn’t recall the last time she’d just dropped in on him like this. Lord love him, but this was turning into a day to remember.
Her mouth was twisted with sour disappointment as she spoke. “It’s that brother of yours. He’s run off to Pontefract.”
    Danny was stunned.