Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tharkay drained his brandy and considered his options. It was a foul night, fit for neither man nor beast, and he felt enervated and frowsy after perhaps a few too many drinks by the fire.

Laurence and Temeraire were in Dover, so it was a cold bed that awaited him in his Pimlico townhouse. He sank further into the leather armchair and contemplated taking a room for the night at the Club rather than trying to secure a carriage at this late hour.

He was distracted by a commotion at the door of the Reading Room. Summers, the steward, was quietly murmuring a protest, probably to keep some member too far into his cups from entering the room: silence was its golden rule, which tended to suit Tharkay very well.

But when he looked up he noted in surprise that he knew the man who was now looking rather hangdog at Summers’ rebuke. He was from the Corps; Ferris, was it? No, the other one. Farthing? Tharkay felt a frisson of consternation; even after a few brandies he ought to have the man’s name at his fingertips. But it had been years.

Forthing; that was it. And Tharkay could see clearly the source of Summers’ censure: the man looked quite as if he’d been dragged off a dragon and through a hedge. He was hardly more smartly turned out than when they’d toiled across the desert together in New South Wales.

Nothing could save Forthing’s ancient coat or his yellowing neckcloth; and while the Club cloakroom could no doubt supply him with acceptable alternatives for the evening, it would not have a replacement for his visibly stained breeches. 

The conversation continued, rising in intensity. It seemed the Reading Room would have no peace until it was resolved. Tharkay sighed, inwardly, and sauntered over. “What seems to be the trouble here?” he asked, although it was perfectly obvious. “Summers, I know this man; please accept him as my guest.” 

Summers gave him the reproachful look favoured by hard-pressed butlers everywhere; but he merely said, “Very good, my lord,” nodded, and withdrew.

Tharkay gestured for Forthing to join him by the fire, and poured two brandies. “Lieutenant Forthing. You are not a member here, I take it?”

“Yes—I mean no,” Forthing stammered, sitting down gratefully and taking a gulp of his drink. “I was supposed to be staying with Henry; Captain Ferris, that is. But he was called away tonight and I thought his Club might have a room.”

“Even at the Travellers’ you surely cannot have expected to be admitted dressed in your travel clothes?” Tharkay asked. “They do not mean it literally.”

Forthing looked down in puzzlement. “These—aren’t my travelling clothes.”

Tharkay snorted in startled amusement, then subsided at the baleful glares from a pair of humourless old coots at the window seats. He had already provoked them too far, apparently, and he certainly could do without more hard stares from Summers. His membership at the Club was well-established, these days, and of course his title went a good way towards creating an aura of acceptance and deference; but Tharkay still sometimes felt an utter interloper—-wondering idly, on occasion, how his fellow members would react were he to appear in the Reading Room as he had in Macao, in his well-worn padded jacket and with an eagle on his arm, rather than in his current aristocratic guise. Well, now perhaps he had his answer.

They sipped at their brandies in silence, as Tharkay considered what to do with the dejected-looking character before him. He had no especial fondness for Forthing, having had only the most basic and practical interactions with him on either the Allegiance or in New South Wales. He knew vaguely that Granby rated him a decent officer, and further, that he had received that ugly, puckered facial scar in Temeraire’s defence; but otherwise he mostly drew a blank. Tharkay was aware that Laurence and Forthing had not been friendly; but he had not been terribly curious about it at the time, all his energies and observations bent elsewhere. Since his retirement, Laurence had neither maintained a correspondence with Forthing nor invited him to Ayrshire, so the lieutenant had quite fallen out of Tharkay’s ken.

Odd, really; by long habit, Tharkay usually kept closer track of the movements and motives of persons of potential connection to Laurence. It was as if Forthing occupied a void space in his mind, and Tharkay rarely thought about or recalled him. This more than anything else piqued his curiosity now.

Forthing was drooping in his chair, looking exhausted; and the departure of the two other members, leaving them alone in the room, afforded Tharkay the opportunity to speak again.

“A cold and miserable night to be abroad in London,” he observed, wondering where Forthing might direct the conversation. 

Forthing sighed. “It is. And it’s blasted inconvenient that Henry—that Ferris is away, and his house locked up. You’ve no idea how the serving men at these clubs look at aviators; how much of a scrub they make you feel.” He drank again. “Especially when you haven’t the knack of talking like a proper nob,” he concluded glumly.

Tharkay raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he drawled in his most gentlemanly tones, “I would have no possible idea of what it might feel like, to be so excluded on the basis of my birth.”

Forthing at least had the grace to look embarrassed at this.

Later, Tharkay would blame the lateness of the hour and the brandy for the offer he made next; he did not like to think that there might be another reason. After all, someone who had travelled alone across Eurasia countless times, perfectly content in his own company, would hardly suffer from the twin weaknesses of boredom and loneliness, simply because his regular companions were away in Dover for the week.

“Well,” he said, “my house in Pimlico is open to you, should you need a place to stay tonight. Usually it is a pleasant twenty minutes’ walk through St James’s Park, but I was planning to call for a carriage shortly.”

Forthing looked astonished. “That’s most generous of you, Mr Tharkay—I mean, my lord.”

Tharkay waved this off. “Tharkay is perfectly fine.”

—

Forthing had very little in the way of dunnage, just one small travelling chest, and Tharkay’s manservant quickly had him installed in one of the guest rooms. 

Forthing did not volunteer his purpose in London, nor his general direction; and Tharkay did not enquire, not out of Laurence’s ludicrous civility, that considered incuriousness a virtue, but because Tharkay did not much care.

He bade Forthing goodnight and retreated to his own rooms; where in Laurence’s absence Tharkay smoked two cigarettes in quick succession without bothering to open the windows, began a letter and discarded it for excessive sentimentality, cast his clothes on the floor rather than folding them on the chair—and then tossed and turned until almost dawn, a little drunk and unable to settle without Will’s steady, breathing presence by his side.

— 

So if, in the morning, Tharkay was late to rise and a touch crabby with it, it was no surprise. 

What was a surprise was to find Forthing at his breakfast table; Tharkay had quite forgotten the previous night’s invitation, and he cursed, silently, at the intrusion as he drank his first coffee.

Tharkay was perfectly prepared to sit through breakfast in complete silence; if Laurence had been home, he would have rallied the conversation, but in his current state Tharkay was in no mood to be even minimally welcoming.

And Forthing, also, was quiet; both through his natural disposition and because he barely knew his host, and was perhaps a little intimidated by him. He did try an insipid “You have a very nice home here,” but Tharkay merely grunted in response, and Forthing fell silent again.

Two cups of coffee later, and Tharkay felt more fortified against the morning. Forthing finished his food and rose, scattering toast crumbs as he stood. Tharkay looked up from the newspaper.

“I must thank you for your hospitality—” Forthing began, awkwardly formal.

“Not at all; it was my pleasure,” Tharkay said, and they both understood it to be a polite lie. 

“Please pass on my regards to Captain Laurence—Sir William, I mean, and to Temeraire,” Forthing offered. 

“I certainly shall,” said Tharkay; another lie. “And mine to Captain Ferris, when you next see him.”

Forthing reddened, inexplicably. Interesting, thought Tharkay: an unexpected reaction. He decided to pursue the thought.

“I do not recall you being close when we were in Russia.”

Forthing looked about the room rather desperately, as if seeking an explanation. “I suppose we became friends later on in the campaign. He’s a fine captain.”

“Hmm,” said Tharkay, noncommittally; he had no particular opinion on Ferris himself. But he was intrigued by Forthing’s sudden slight air of hysteria at the topic of conversation. He was very familiar with such a response, and thought he could intuit the reason behind it. 

Tharkay put down his coffee cup and fixed Forthing with a stare. “How does Captain Ferris, these days? I have not seen him at the Club.”

Such a wholly innocuous question should hardly have provoked the reaction it did. Forthing reddened, again, smiled fondly, and stammered out a somewhat incoherent answer about Prussia, and Ferris’s dragon—apparently quite remarkable—and the limited time Ferris was able to spend in town, although he was expected again that evening.

This was far too easy; although of course there was little fun to be had in baiting a man on this particular topic. Tharkay felt a ridiculous pang of sympathy: how had Forthing survived, if he were always this obvious? Although—looking him up and down, noting that Forthing had not shifted his disreputable clothing from the previous night—perhaps the truth was that no-one could suspect such a sloven of inversion. He was, really, a disgrace to the entire practice.

Tharkay wiped at his mouth with his napkin, and came to a decision. Laurence and Temeraire were not due back until the next day, and he was quite at a loose end. He folded the newspaper and stood.

“Come with me, if you can spare an hour or two. I am visiting my tailor this morning, and I expect your Captain Ferris would enjoy seeing you turned out more smartly for once. By the way, you have marmalade in your beard.”

Forthing gaped; from the look on his face he had not missed Tharkay’s slight emphasis on “your Captain Ferris”. But he made no complaint, scrubbed ineffectively at his chin, and allowed himself to be swept out of the room.

—

In the event, it was more like three hours by the time Tharkay had shepherded Forthing across St James’s Park, down Jermyn Street, through the newfangled Burlington Arcade and up to Savile Row. 

Along Jermyn Street they bought several new, fine linen shirts; Tharkay a little irked to have to settle for pre-sewn, but of course Cruikshank’s did not have Forthing’s measurements, and needs must if they were to make any progress at all that day. 

They dropped into Floris for Tharkay to restock his favoured eaux de toilettes. He selected a bottle of a new scent for Laurence as well, apparently a mix of citrus, jasmine, and marine notes—although he did not have high hopes of Laurence often indulging him by wearing it. Forthing refused the purchase of anything for himself—“I’m not that fancy!”—which spurred Tharkay on to insist instead on a visit to his barber. There he conferred rapidly in Turkish with the forbidding looking proprietor, before eventually ushering Forthing into the barber’s chair while the man stropped his razor.

“Wait,” said Forthing, “I don’t want to have my beard shaved.” 

Tharkay narrowed his eyes. “The scar, is it?” he said, and turning to the barber spoke again. “Very well; just a beard trim then, and Erdem will also take a pass at your hair.”  He noticed Forthing eyeing his own gloves with a sympathetic gaze, and tucked his hands behind his back.

One final matter was required. “Do not be alarmed,” Tharkay warned, in the full knowledge that this  was possibly the most alarming thing he could in fact say, as Erdem approached Forthing with a lit taper. Forthing sat in frozen anxiety as the hair was singed from his ears. “Better,” muttered Tharkay approvingly.

Tharkay could see that Forthing was working his way up to saying something; and indeed, as they passed into the Burlington Arcade, Forthing pulled Tharkay aside into a vacant doorway.

“I’m much obliged to you,” he began, “you’ve been exceedingly generous with your hospitality and such. But I should leave you now, for—I’ve pressing business elsewhere.” This last said with a not very convincing air.

“Nonsense,” said Tharkay, “Ferris is not back in town until tonight, is he? So we certainly have time to complete our errands before you are expected home.”

Forthing started, looking very concerned, almost fearful. “Sir. I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying—”

Tharkay fixed him with a significant look. “Forthing, I don’t take you for a fool.”

Forthing paused, frowning; but then his face cleared in understanding, thinking perhaps of Tharkay’s own living arrangements; he nodded, and made no further protest.

Neckcloths and stockings, gloves and a pair of boots and a hat followed; Tharkay examined some ridiculously splendid walking-canes, more to frighten Forthing than for any other reason, and reluctantly decided against a purchase.

Tharkay realised he was almost having fun: Laurence would never permit him such liberties, but Forthing was trailing in his wake in a slight daze, acceding to almost every suggestion, and occasionally glancing in some wonder at the growing pile of packages in the footman’s arms.

Finally they reached Poole’s. Tharkay had not actually planned to visit his tailor that day, despite what he had told Forthing earlier, but he was greeted volubly by Mr Poole himself, who was eager to show off a new shipment of very fine fabrics he had just received from the Orient. 

It was a great temptation to look over them properly, but Tharkay had a different purpose today. With a slight pang he restricted himself to quickly picking out just two to be fashioned into waistcoats: one rather lovely Kashmir silk, with a paisley pattern in rich claret for himself, and a more sober midnight silk chinoiserie for Laurence; he knew from long experience that anything that smacked even slightly of gaudiness would be politely received and then tucked away and never worn.

Tharkay and Poole conferred, and agreed on two coats—one green, one an inky blue—and two pairs of trousers for Forthing. Tharkay was sceptical about buckskins, thinking Forthing unlikely to be able to keep their pale colour in good order, but acceded to one pair of buckskins and one of a darker wool. Tharkay was able to sit back and observe with a glass of wine while Forthing was manoeuvred this way and that, his every measurement taken down by the tailor’s scurrying assistants, and various fabrics held up against his skin. 

At last they were done, and Forthing fell into an armchair, overcome. Tharkay had to be the one to instruct the tailors: “Do have them sent to Lieutenant Forthing, care of his friend, Captain Ferris of the Corps—Forthing, can you supply his direction in town?”

—-

They now had so many packages that the footman was obliged to give a boy sixpence to help him carry them. Tharkay and Forthing strolled back through St James’s Park in a close to companionable silence. Tharkay was indulging himself in a little private reverie of how it would be if he could persuade Laurence on such an expedition—if Laurence might permit Tharkay to select some fabrics for him out of the ordinary way, perhaps in dark jewel tones, or a little extravagantly patterned; a different cut for a new evening coat, maybe, or a light silk banyan for their intimate summer evenings together. He knew it to be the wildest fantasy, of course, Laurence valuing sombre practicality over all things—though perhaps Temeraire could be prevailed upon to support his vision? He was therefore quite sunk in thought when he felt Forthing stiffen at his side.

A tall, red-haired figure was walking towards them on the path; he seemingly had not noticed them yet. As he approached, Forthing called out, “Hal—Ferris!” and Ferris immediately halted, looking around.

“Ed!” he exclaimed; and then spotted Tharkay. “My lord Strathvagan,” he said more stiffly, with a slight bow.

Tharkay bowed in return. “Do not stand on ceremony, I beg you; Tharkay served well when we were comrades in the Corps, and remains perfectly acceptable.”

There was a moment’s pause as the three men sized each other up. Tharkay could feel Forthing almost thrumming with tension by his side; he wondered how long it had been, since Forthing and Ferris had last seen one another. He well understood the twin imperatives that would be warring within them: for complete concealment on the one hand, and on the other the fervent desire to fall into each other's arms; baffling though that instinct might seem when he considered Forthing, who was still in his slatternly and shabby clothing even though his grooming was now vastly improved.

He was about to make his excuses, and leave the pair of them alone together, when Ferris spoke up, sharply.

“What an unexpected surprise, to find the pair of you in each other’s company,” he said, looking intently at Forthing. “I was not aware that you corresponded.”

“Hal–” hissed Forthing, attempting discretion. “Tharkay was good enough to rescue me at the Club last night, and provide me with lodging.”

“I see,” said Ferris, a touch icily, looking at the footman half hidden under his pile of packages. “And you have been shopping, I take it?”

He was nearly vibrating with jealousy. Tharkay did not know whether to be affronted—in what universe could he possibly be tempted by Forthing?—or amused. 

But before he could say anything, Forthing interjected. “For god’s sake, Henry, stand down.” He stared at Ferris; and whatever he intended to communicate, it apparently succeeded, for Ferris stopped obviously bristling and relaxed.

Tharkay did not feel any particular need to defend himself; but still, he thought, Ferris ought to be a little more grateful that someone had taken his fellow in hand. He could not imagine how Ferris had previously countenanced Forthing’s appearance.

“It seemed that a refresh of Lieutenant Forthing’s wardrobe was in order. You are quite welcome.”

Ferris gaped at him. Tharkay continued, “I will take my leave of you, gentlemen; Forthing, James here will accompany you to Captain Ferris’s address with the parcels, and I will have your chest sent on.” He bowed again. “No doubt our paths will cross again at the Club; bid you good day.”

Tharkay turned on his heel, leaving Forthing and Ferris in his wake. Behind him, he could hear Ferris’s baffled, “What the devil was that all about?” and Forthing’s almost equally perplexed, “I suppose—actually, I’ve very little idea, to tell you the truth.” 

Tharkay smiled to himself as he meandered past the lake and towards Birdcage Walk, whistling a little as the sun emerged from the clouds. Laurence and Temeraire would return on the morrow, and he had the delightful prospect of presenting Will with his new waistcoat to look forward to. Probably Laurence would not notice the somewhat indulgent element of its self-coloured dragon pattern—although Tharkay would certainly point it out, discreetly, to Temeraire, whom he could count on to be his ally in these endeavours, always.