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Darcy’s voice dipped into a bass as he reproduced the imagined voice. “‘The fervor of my flesh is strong,’ he replied, ‘but my will is stronger still. I will not surrender to such degradation.’ And with this unbearable proclamation, she ripped off her muddied petticoat and stockings, drew out a knife, and plunging it into her own heart, bled until the grass turned red. Flowers no longer bloom there.”
“What a horrid story. Did you make that up?”
“Maybe. I shall call it the Garden of Gethsemane.”
“Well, before hearing that, I’d rather considered us to be living in an Eden.”
“Then an Eden it shall be. A new Eden! Where we are free to be ourselves without the trickeries of a snake.”
“And what’s the snake a metaphor for here, exactly?” Bron asked, but Darcy didn’t answer—he kissed Bron again, holding him so close Bron could feel him harden beside his waist.
Bron poured his consciousness into those parts of his body that Darcy touched: Darcy’s lips on his lips, his hand on his back, and his leg between his own legs, like a third; his blood ran through him like a river’s current, forking into lands that surpassed the boundaries of his body. But when Darcy looked at him—and he often did this, as though he was worried Bron would disappear at any moment—Bron could read the nervousness in his eyes, was guided to his chest again. He could feel the tightness in his stance, in his arms and chest, like a rope frayed to its last thread.
“Something’s wrong,” Bron said then. “What is it? You’re not happy—”
“Quite the contrary, Bron. It’s rather that I feel we should stop because I am worried of getting carried away, if you understand me.” Darcy smiled, looking down and back up again. In that smile, Bron sensed something he hadn’t sensed before, that there was a yet unexplored innocence to Darcy, a shameless adolescence, something on the brink of rebellion. “At least not here.”
Darcy leaned in again to steal another kiss, when Bron saw a flickering from the periphery of his eye. He pushed Darcy away, pointed behind his shoulders. It was Clarence, watching them from the window, and she quickly shut the drapes.
“C-Christ,” Darcy stammered. “What is she still doing here so late?”
“I don’t think she saw us,” he said reassuringly, for Darcy or for himself he did not know. How would it appear, to Clarence, and to Mr. Edwards even, his cozying up to his employer’s son? Was he breaking some code of conduct? “It’s dark. We’re hidden.”
“Yes, you’re right, it is fine,” Darcy said, eyes flicking back to the window. “But for now we should go our separate ways. Me and the governess … not a good look.” He smiled.
Bron smiled back. “Okay. That’s okay. I will go to my bedroom, and you will go to yours.”
“Alright, I mean unless … unless you were to go to your bedroom, and I were to join you there?” Bron sensed shyness in his eyes. A boyishness that Darcy wore well. “I mean, only if you wanted me to.”
Several thoughts raced through Bron’s mind, but there was one that shone out like a beacon, dimming all the others. Darcy sniffed through the interval of waiting for an answer.
“I want you to.”
Darcy laughed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Alright, then.”
“Alright, then,” Bron agreed. “But Darcy, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, you must—ask away. Always with your questions. But Clarence is quite the curtain twitcher. I’ll go now, then join you soon, in thirty minutes, once Ada has gone to bed.”
“Okay.”
They said their goodbyes, Darcy going one way, through the back of the house, and Bron, taking a moment to digest what’d happened, going through the other. Inside, the entrance hall was quiet, though there was a noise—Clarence playing about with her keys, suggesting she was about to leave. She gave him a keen-eyed stare, confirming to him what she’d seen. He looked back at her intently, and she shuffled away without a word.
When he reached his bedroom, he didn’t flick on the lights, but climbed straight onto the bed in the dark and counted down the thirty minutes in his mind. He gave up after five and brushed his teeth and washed his armpits instead. He returned to his bed, and here he waited for Darcy to come to him. He’d hear the footsteps outside the door and listen keenly for the knock. Darcywould climb into the room, and he would emerge from the bed fully dressed, as if to say, here I am, all wrapped up and ready for you to open, like a present. But a panic arose in his chest, and he rose to pull the curtains from their tiebacks, shrouding the room in yet further darkness. What if his body wasn’t good enough? What if it failed to meet the contours of Darcy’s desires? When the knock came, he lunged for the door, hesitated before opening. The doorknob shook in his hands, and he yanked at it when it stuck.
“Hello,” Darcy whispered, leaning against the frame and rubbing at his neck. He cast a glance down the hall, to ensure nobody had seen him. His sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, revealing deep blue veins and muscles straining at the arm. He gave an awkward grin and shuffled his feet, making him appear, to Bron, that much softer, cordial, and all the more pleasing. He was the only thing Bron wanted right now.
“Hi.” They were both whispering now.
“M-may I come in?”
Bron stepped out of the way. “Yes, of course.” Closed the door. It was strange, seeing Darcy existing in the middle of his room, among all his things.
“So,” he said quickly.
