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- Herausgeber: Decent Fellows Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
London 1860 George Dancie Music Hall performer George Dancie is famed for his for his risqué songs, characters, and costumes. In the guise of 'Miss Georgette' George performs private shows, entertaining elite, queer clientele at a secluded mansion called Wychwood. During a party at the house, a newcomer catches Miss Georgette’s eye. It appears the gentleman is just as enamoured with her. But after a fairy tale waltz the mysterious new club member vanishes, and George doesn’t even know his name. Percy Harcourt When editor and poet Percy Harcourt reads his late grandfather's final letter, he finds a deeper understanding of the man within the lines of hand-penned script. His grandfather's dying wish was that Percy should not be alone. And so, he provided the means for Percy to discretely seek out company– a numbered gold token that permits Percy to enter the elite underbelly of London and gain an invitation to Wychwood. This book is a gay historical romance with saucy songs, hopeless romantics, a villain and a HEA. This book is a work of art created by human imagination. No AI was use for the writing or artwork in this book.
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Inhaltsverzeichnis
CHAPTER 1
MISS GEORGETTE
CHAPTER 2
PERCY HARCOURT
CHAPTER 3
MISS GEORGETTE
CHAPTER 4
PERCY
CHAPTER 5
MISS GEORGETTE
CHAPTER 6
PERCY
CHAPTER 7
GEORGE
CHAPTER 8
PERCY
CHAPTER 9
MISS GEORGETTE
CHAPTER 10
PERCY
CHAPTER 11
GEORGE
CHAPTER 12
PERCY
**** CHAPTER 13
GEORGE
CHAPTER 14
PERCY
CHAPTER 15
GEORGE
CHAPTER 16
PERCY
CHAPTER 17
GEORGE
CHAPTER 18
PERCY
CHAPTER 19
GEORGE
CHAPTER 20
PERCY
CHAPTER 21
GEORGE
CHAPTER 20
PERCY
CHAPTER 23
GEORGE
CHAPTER 24
PERCY
CHAPTER 25
GEORGE
CHAPTER 26
PERCY
CHAPTER 27
GEORGE
CHAPTER 28
PERCY
CHAPTER 29
GEORGE
CHAPTER 30
PERCY
CHAPTER 31
GEORGE
CHAPTER 32
PERCY
CHAPTER 33
GEORGE
CHAPTER 34
PERCY
EPILOGUE
GEORGE
PERCY
The
Songbird of Wychwood
WYCHWOOD BOOK 2
Isobel Starling
www.decentfellowspress.com
Copyright © 2025 Isobel Starling
ISBN: 9783759279330
First Edition:
All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.
The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The use of real-life locations is for fictional purposes. The plot, actions, and characters in this work are fictional and in no way reflect real-life occurrences at these establishments.
This book is a work of art created by human imagination. No AI was use for the writing or artwork in this book. Theft of the contents of this book or cover artwork for machine learning (AI) is strictly prohibited.
The Songbird of Wychwood,
Copyright © 2025 Isobel Starling
Cover Art Illustration by Emity
Email: [email protected]
London 1860
George Dancie
Music Hall performer George Dancie is famed for his for his risqué songs, characters, and costumes. In the guise of 'Miss Georgette' George performs private shows, entertaining elite, queer clientele at a secluded mansion called Wychwood. During a party at the house, a newcomer catches Miss Georgette’s eye. It appears the gentleman is just as enamoured with her. But after a fairy tale waltz the mysterious new club member vanishes, and George doesn’t even know his name.
Percy Harcourt
When editor and poet Percy Harcourt reads his late grandfather's final letter, he finds a deeper understanding of the man within the lines of hand-penned script. His grandfather's dying wish was that Percy should not be alone. And so, he provided the means for Percy to discretely seek out company– a numbered gold token that permits Percy to enter the elite underbelly of London and gain an invitation to Wychwood.
This book is a gay historical romance with saucy songs, hopeless romantics, a villain and a HEA.
Authors Note
The song lyrics in this book are written by Isobel Starling except for ‘And Oh How the Money Rolls in’, a bawdy song that uses the traditional folk tune of ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’. Since the early 1800s the song had many parodies and adaptations with people adding their own filthy lyrics (which I have also done!) An 1860 song ‘Send Back my Barney to me’ by music hall performer and songwriter Harry Clifton uses the same tune with alternative lyrics. This is the first known copyrighted version, but as this copyright expired after 70 years, the tune and lyrics are now public domain.
Happy reading
Isobel Starling
CHAPTER 1
MISS GEORGETTE
I opened the oh-so-fancy gift box, drew back the layer of tissue paper, and gasped. The whalebone bodice inside the box was made with crimson silk and tiny embroidered flowers. I hurriedly removed it from the box and held it to my bare masculine chest, moving to and fro, my eyes sparkling with pleasure as I admired myself in the full-length mirror. I loved the feeling of the bodice against my skin and I wanted to know how tight it would be when the ribbons were tied.
My best friend Eloise Fields marched into our shared dressing room. “Oi! That's mine, you scamp! Don't be getting too fond of it!” she scolded, her cockney accent strong. “My beau brought me that—came all the way from Gay Paree, y’know.”
“Which one?” I asked.
In the mirror Eloise directed her gaze at me, and in the reflection, she pouted, confused by my question. “There’s only one Gay Paree,” she insisted.
“No, silly! Which beau? As soon as you come off stage there’s a line of coves at the door. Harold and me are beating them back with sticks,” I laughed.
“Well, yes. I suppose I gets more than my fair share of male attention,” she fluttered her hand as if it was a paper fan, and flashed her eyes.
Eloise’s mother was originally from Morocco and her father was a sailor who hailed from Rye in Sussex. She’d grown up in Lambeth, and even though I’d tried to teach her proper elocution Eloise couldn’t drop her strong cockney accent. She was a small, exotic, caramel-skinned girl with startling ice blue eyes and close-cropped hair dyed platinum blonde. Eloise is twenty-two, she’s a contortionist, and during her act she wears a barely decent costume, matched with a silk sequined cap and slippers. She dances in a sinfully erotic way and bends her lithe body into the most alarming shapes imaginable. It’s quite the talent. Of course, the gents go crazy for her and deliver gifts to the stage door in the hope of getting a date.
I admired myself in the mirror again and met Eloise’s gaze. “Can I borrow this? Just for tonight,” I pleaded, my lashes fluttering as I tried a puppy-dog look to pull at her heart strings. “Please Lou! Miss Georgette’s got a private show.”
“Oh, go on then,” she said reluctantly. “One night only! Gawd, George, you know I could never say no to that pretty face!” Her small soft palms gripped my cheeks as she turned my head and popped a kiss on the tip of my nose. I batted her away then grinned with relief that Eloise had said yes. Paired with a golden blonde wig and the dress I’d just finished sewing, this bodice would look spectacular. I put the beautiful whale bone bodice back in the gift box and put the lid on.
Eloise leaned her dainty backside against the dressing table. “So, where’s this private show then? Is it the private, private show that you always come back from laden with goodies?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” I replied cryptically.
“I can’t believe you won’t tell even little old me?” Eloise mirrored my earlier puppy dog expression and then launched a tickle attack.
“I’m your best friend. Tell me!” she demanded, laughing. I screamed as her bony fingers skated over my naked flesh and I backed away from her. Eloise Fields had the look of a mischievous devil in her eyes. She followed me as I laughed, and tried to escape. We ended up in a giggling heap on the red velvet chaise longue, the only item of furniture in our dressing room that wasn’t heaped with costumes, silk scarves, or gift boxes. Eloise wrapped her arms around my chest and snuggled her head into the nape of my neck.
After a moment of silence when all I could hear was the thrumming of my excited heart, Eloise spoke. “I wish you liked girls, George,” she sighed dejectedly as she clung to me. “I always feel so safe with you.”
I let out a breath. I knew what she meant. We were closer and more affectionate than some married couples, and don’t get me wrong, I loved Eloise, but not in the way that Eloise wanted me to love her.
“Just you be safe at your private show is all. I don’t want you getting into no trouble. I know what the private shows can be like. The men are even more feral when they get you alone and there’s no one to protect you, not like here.”
I patted my friend’s hand, glad to have her looking out for me, but I was also unsettled by the weight of what she’d just said. Had something happened at one of her own private shows that she hadn’t told me about? Eloise was fiercely independent. She took what she wanted from the men who plied her with gifts and she didn’t suffer fools. She was determined to be in control of her destiny, and I admired her for it.
“Is someone giving you grief, love? You know I’m here if one of your gentlemen gets ideas you ain’t into,” I offered. Eloise pulled away and then stood up. She straightened her clothes and in a colder tone said,
“I can look after me-self!” Her sharp tone confused me, but before I could voice my concern she slapped my arse and said,
“Right, I’d best get to rehearsals. You bring my bodice back in one piece, you hear, and I don’t want no wine…or other stains on it!”
I placed a hand on my chest “I would never!” I gasped theatrically. We both laughed because we knew, given the chance, I most certainly would!
****
My mother, Violette D’Ancie, was originally from Paris. She told me she’d trained with Madame Vignon-Chauvin, one of the most sought-after costumiers in France. Violette had come to London to work as a theater costumier, but life hadn’t turned out as she’d expected. Ma told me that for a start, London was more expensive than she’d thought, and so her savings dwindled fast. Eventually Violette made some friends with connections to the theater. But not long after, she fell pregnant with me. I had no idea who my dad was, but my ma was a looker and I gather that a talented, beautiful French girl new to London must have turned a few heads!
When I was a nipper we never stayed in one place for long, but I grew up around theater people, from those that mopped the stage, limelighters, and riggers to musicians, actors, and actresses. When I was eleven, we finally found a home at the Middlesex Music Hall on Drury Lane in the heart of Covent Garden. The proprietor, Mr. Alfred Grayson was quite the impresario and I believe he had a soft spot for my mum. Mr. Grayson let Violette and I live rent free in one of the rooms above the auditorium. Ma just paid for fuel and food, which was quite the rare agreement if you ask me. And now I come to think about it, maybe everything wasn’t as above board as I’d thought when I was a kiddie. I don’t know if anything happened between Grayson and my mum, I was a nipper at the time so what would I know of the goings on when I was in bed? Whatever arrangement they had, ma did it to ensure we had a roof over our heads, and she got regular costume work. All I remember was that Mr. Grayson was nice to me and he kept me busy in the theater. I’d run errands and help with props and painting scenery while Violette sewed costumes for productions all over London.
Ma spoke to me in English and French, and she made sure I learned to speak and write in both languages. Our orchestra conductor at the time, Mr. Otto Franz taught me how to read and write music. I loved it so much that I started writing songs in private. By the age of fifteen I was a jack-of-all-trades and I’d probably had a go at every job in the theater, apart from being the compere. That was where Mr. Grayson was in his element, using his silver tongue to pull the punters in and keep them wanting more!
Ma told me that my first stage performance was when I was just three-years-old. I can’t recall which theater we were at, all I remember is that she dressed me up like a little girl and I had to skip onto the stage and be a nuisance during a comedy act. I remember it vividly. I swear, the first time I got a reaction and hundreds of punters roared with laughter cos of something I did, I knew this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my days. I loved the attention, and as I grew up I found I was good at mimicking what I saw other performers do.
Life was grand at our music hall; we were a family of sorts. And then, my world came crashing down when my mum got sick with Influenza and passed away. I was so sudden; she was sick for a few days and then she was gone. I was sixteen when I became an orphan. Ma never told me who’d fathered me, and with her gone I didn’t know what I would do. Mr. Grayson took pity on me and said I could stay in our room above the auditorium.
“I won’t see Violet’s boy out on the streets, and you know what, it’s always a comfort to know someone’s in the theater at all times. You can be my watchdog, George. You can make sure the ghost light stays lit and all,” he’d joked as he ruffled my curls. I hadn’t laughed, but was so grateful to keep our room. I promised to be good, look after the theater out of hours, and I’d keep working hard.
It takes a lot of work to put on a play, but once the first night’s done muscle memory takes over and it’s a doddle. Putting on music hall show is a different kind of animal. We have comedians, ventriloquists, aerial acts, jugglers, illusionists, singers, and dancers. We have to keep the show fresh so our punters come back time and time again. Our stage manager Arthur Formby says it’s like conducting chaos.
With all of the lifting and carrying I did each day helping around the theater, by eighteen, I was starting to put on a little muscle. I’d grown up into a tall, athletic young man. I had mousy brown wavy hair and golden-brown eyes, just like my mum.
I recall the day I got my break as if it was yesterday. Arthur had a strange twinkle in his eyes when he told me that Mr. Grayson wanted to see me in his office. I was worried cos that was never a good thing. I wracked my brain, wondering what I could have done wrong. When Violette had passed, Grayson’s attitude towards me changed. He became colder, and these past few years he’d hardened somewhat towards me. I hated Grayson’s office. It was as messy as a rubbish heap and stank of stale old man and tobacco. The walls used to be white at one time, but Grayson seemed to let the upkeep of the whole theater go when he didn’t have my ma to impress. Now, the office walls had a sickly yellow tobacco stain and the lead paint was bubbling and peeling in places. Mr. Grayson spent more and more time locked in his office these days, and I assumed he was planning tours for his travelling acts and dealing with finding new blood for our show. Apparently, Mr. Grayson had a wife, two kiddies, and a nice house just outside of town, but you wouldn’t think it as he was always out and about. I found the office door was open and so I walked in to see him sitting behind his messy desk “You asked to see me boss,” I said. Mr. Grayson glanced up from his ledger.
“I’ve had a grand idea, lad. Just a tick,” Grayson said holding his hand up to make me wait until he’d finished writing. I stood quietly before his desk curious to hear what this idea was. The desk was a catastrophe, loaded with paperwork, invoices, receipts, and several thick ledgers. His secretary had walked out a few months ago and so far, there was no replacement. It was a regular occurrence but I could understand why secretaries didn’t want to work in close quarters with a greasy old cove like Alfred Grayson!
When my boss put his pen down and looked up he said “Georgie,” with fake affection. I hated it when anyone called me Georgie. ‘Mon petit Georgie’ that was what mum used to call me, and so hearing that name reminded me that she wasn’t here anymore. It made me miss her something awful. I gritted my teeth and listened to my boss.
He sat back in his chair and considered me with dangerous eyes. “I bet you don’t think anyone hears you when you’re standing in the wings singing along with the acts.” I felt heat rise to blush my cheeks. I was so embarrassed that I’d been called to Mr. Grayson’s office for this!
“I bet you don’t think anyone hears you playing that old piano in your room, neither. I do. I see, and hear everything that goes on in this theater, my lad!”
I was mortified and my eyes fell to try and discern the pattern that was still faintly visible on the old worn carpet beneath my feet.
“Don’t be shy, boy! You’ve got quite the singing voice,” Grayson added with condescending amusement. “And you can’t be doing odds and sods around the theater all your life. It’s about time you got your act together.”
I didn’t understand. Was I finally out on my ear? “P…pardon?” I said, shocked and a little terrified of what he would say next.
“The stage, boy, the stage!”
Oh! I’d longed to be a performer on the stage, but I knew which side my bread was buttered, and I’d worried that if I got on Mr. Grayson’s nerves by asking to perform, he might finally kick me out. And so, I was dumbstruck by what he said next.
“I’ll give you a trial, let’s say a week, you go on as a warm-up act and sing something pretty to get the punters in the mood. I’ll pay you an extra shilling per night. How does that sound?”
I was currently on a three bob a week for being a jack-of-all-trades, and of course, I was the night watchman too!
“Yes, yes, thank you Mr. Grayson…thank you for the opportunity. I won’t let you down, sir!” I stuttered with delight. I walked out of his office feeling like I was ten foot tall.
And so, I started my time as a music hall performer by singing a few popular songs each night as filler between the main star attractions. The reception I got was muted at first, but good enough that Grayson let me keep it going. And I did.
I’d done the warm up spots, singing other people’s songs, for two-years before I got bored and finally decided on a new direction. Those two-years were my schooling, and now I was ready to bloom. For my new act I’d created characters, and matched them with songs that I wrote myself. I’d always been told I could pass for a girl so for my first turn I was dressed like a Catholic nun character I called Sister John Thomas. I began by walking on stage in a nun’s costume. I stood in the middle of the stage, blessed myself, and opened a hymn book. The audience appeared shocked and confused. And to my amusement, some even started booing. Then, I began belting out a well-known song, Oh, How the Money Rolls in, with a few changes to the lyrics I’d penned myself.
My brother’s a rent boy in Chelsea
My mother’s a tart in the Strand
My father sells his arsehole
Up the Elephant and Castle
And charges just tu’ppence a hand
My uncle’s a vicar in Stepney
Saving all the young girls from sin
He’ll sell you absolution for a shilling
And oh, how the money rolls in, rolls in,
And oh, how the money rolls in!
The punters sang along and laughed so hard at my vulgar lyrics that they nearly brought the roof down. That night when I came off stage Mr. Grayson looked at me all funny, like there were stars in his eyes.
“I think you’ve found your calling Sister,” he joked as he clapped me on the back, and he was right. Finally, I was doing what I was supposed to do.
***
CHAPTER 2
PERCY HARCOURT
I was startled from my musings by an ear-splitting scream. My nib skidded across the page, spraying ink over my newly penned poem. Dear God! What is it now mother? My mother had a taste for the dramatics and a reaction like this could be caused by anything as simple as spilling her tea or seeing a spider. I put my pen down and wiped my inky fingers on a damp cloth and then, driven by frustration I marched from my room. I hurried down three flights of stairs to where I heard a commotion coming from my grandfather’s study. The hysterical wailing and raised voices continued. The words I heard shared between grandfather and my mother took the fire from my anger and chilled me to the bone.
“I will not have my business ruined by that mountebank, Valentine. He has gone too far this time, too damn far,” Grandfather ranted.
“But Theodore, you cannot go through with this, surely you must know that duels are illegal? And it is so…unbecoming of a man of your station,” Mother cried.
“I do not care about the legalities, Evangeline. This about honour, and it’s about time Valentine learned what that word means! A duel is how my father sorted out disputes and his father before him. Our family has a notoriously good eye for the shot. I will shut that blaggard down once and for all, you’ll see my dear daughter-in-law, you’ll see!” Grandfather sounded pleased with himself, almost relieved that whatever he had planned was afoot.
My father piped in then, “Very well Papah, if you are determined to go through with this, as your second it is my duty to inform the other party where and when the duel will take place.”
“The sooner the better, I say!” Grandfather said decisively.
My hand rose to cover my mouth as I lingered outside the door. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Very well, tomorrow at sunrise, Greenwich Park, between the old oaks.”
“Thank you, Victor, you are the best son I could have wished for.”
Mother wept louder. I couldn’t believe what I had just overheard. This was utter madness. I inhaled to settle my nerves and then knocked on the study door.
“Enter,” Grandfather called. I stepped into the room to see my stalwart father standing by the mantle in a good suit, puffing on a cigar. Mother still wore her coat and hat, as if she had rushed straight into the study on arriving home from her Guardians of the Poor charity meeting. She was slumped in a hearth chair in a most undignified way, weeping and glaring at my grandfather in disbelief. Theodore Harcourt was sitting erect at his desk looking like the bullish businessman he was.
Blackwood Hall in Greenwich was the family’s London home. My grandfather had designed and built it from the wealth of his publishing empire. The Harcourt Press began in 1830 as Harcourt & Valentine, for printing newspapers and periodicals. Grandfather’s pride and joy was The Daily Gazette which had been printing for thirty years, and as the business grew, he added a host of monthly periodicals: The Builder, The Rambler, and The Archaeological Journal. Theodore Harcourt was in his eighties now, still a hard worker, and a stubborn taskmaster of a man who, after losing his wife when my father was a baby, never took another.
“What’s this I hear about a duel? This has got to be a joke, grandfather,” I said incredulous as I stepped into the study.
“Oh, it’s no joke Percy. This is a very, very serious matter, one of corporate sabotage, no less,” Grandfather replied. “Edmund Valentine has gone too bally far and I will not stand for it.” He thumped a hand on his desk top for effect.
“What’s he done this time?” I sighed as I slumped into the chair in front of the grand desk and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“That man has had the temerity to take the name of one of my publications for his own. The Daily Gazette has been mine for thirty years; and you know full-well that it has an extensive national readership and an excellent reputation. Valentine’s new ha’penny rag is to be named The Gazette. He refuses to change it. This is unconscionable.”
Edmund Valentine was once grandfather’s dearest friend. They began their newspaper business together, hence the original name of Harcourt & Valentine. The business thrived for many years. However, after a falling out before I was born, Valentine left the company and set up his own publisher where he printed periodicals and was in direct competition. The two had been fierce adversaries ever since. No one knew why they had argued, but part of me saw it as inevitable that their tempestuous rivalry would eventually come to blows. I did not, however, hold the same confidence as my father or grandfather as to his ability to shoot straight. The man was eighty-one years old and wore thick spectacles for goodness sake, and Valentine was ten years younger.
I knew by the determination on Theodore’s face that there was nothing I, a mere grandson more than fifty years his junior, could say to prevent what had already been set in motion. All I could do was to be a supportive son and grandson, and offer comfort to my mother. A stone’s weight sank into my gut. This was going to be awful.
****
I’d not even had a day to let this madness sink in. It was a frigid and foggy morning as I travelled in our family carriage to Greenwich Park where the duel would commence at sunrise. We were just thirty minutes to the end of the life of one man or another. Dueling had been illegal for over ten years now and if the police discovered the duel, both parties would be tried for attempted murder, so this business needed be dealt with swiftly before word spread. And so, there was no fighting talk as our carriage trundled down the misty roadway towards the prominent ancient oak trees that were a focal point in the park. Theodore was quiet, stoic and seemingly resigned to this being a thoroughly ghastly business. My father gripped a rosewood box that held his long dead uncle’s dueling pistols. I wished I was still in my bed and that this was just a bad dream, but no, I was forced, as a dutiful son and grandson to bear witness to this event.
We stepped down from the carriage and assembled by the old oaks as the early morning mist roiled like waves across the parkland. Grandfather’s physician, Dr. Brownlow had arrived before us and nodded solemnly as we joined him. The other parties, Edmund Valentine, his seconds Henry Jones and David Cuthbert, and their physician a Dr. Claremont stood together in a huddle, the two friends seeming to desperately try to get Edmund to change his mind.
“Grandfather, are you sure you want to go through with this? Surely, we can talk with Valentine and some agreement can be made?” I pleaded, desperate for this madness to stop. Theodore Harcourt resignedly put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, and then shook his head. He turned and sent a glance to Edmund as the man sent his gaze to Theodore. Something wordless passed between them that made my heart lurch. These men had once been the dearest of friends and I found I was consumed with frustration that they could not find an agreement. How had it come to this?
“Time waits for no man. Let’s get on, aye Theo,” Valentine called to grandfather, who licked his lips and nodded. My God, they were going ahead with this. All was in motion and I could do nothing but watch aghast.
Mr. Cuthbert and my father called the men to attention. He asked Valentine “Choose heads or tails.”
“Tails,” Valentine decided, Cuthbert nodded and tossed a coin. “Heads,” Mr. Harcourt will take the first shot.”
Then my father opened the rosewood box displaying the pair of single-shot flintlock dueling pistols. The seconds loaded the pistols with a single lead shot and gunpowder, and then, Grandfather permitted Edmund Valentine to choose his pistol. The seconds passed a loaded weapon to each man. Mr. Cuthbert kept an eye on his pocket watch and on his command, Theodore and Edmund stood back to back. As the sun rose and began to burn away the morning mist he explained the rules.
“Gentlemen. On my order you will step ten paces and then turn and face your opponent. Harcourt is first shot. May God have mercy on your souls.”
My mouth went dry and the silence of trepidation fell. Even the birds in the park refused to sing.
The bells chimed all over London telling the city it was six o’clock. He waited until the sixth bell fell to silence and then Mr. Cuthbert roared.
“On your marks. Go!”
The men did as ordered, walking ten paces away from one another. Valentine was the first to turn and raise his pistol. When grandfather turned, he met the gaze of his former friend and Valentine fired. My grandfather didn’t even raise his weapon, even though he was supposed to be first. The shot hit him in the heart. His face crumpled in pain and then he fell backwards, dead before he hit the dew-soaked grass. My ears rang with the sound of that awful fatal shot. I felt as if all of the blood had rushed from me and I was cold to my very bones. I couldn’t move, my father’s mouth gaped in a horrified rictus. Valentine then dropped his pistol and rushed the twenty paces across the grass. He fell to his knees beside his old friend and cried out,
“Theo, my love! Oh my God, Theo.” He cradled his friend’s head as he sobbed, and then to my dismay he cupped Theo’s cheek and kissed him on the mouth, a kiss so tender and intimate, it stole my breath. Then Edmund Valentine took the pistol from my grandfather’s lifeless hand, put it to his own temple, and fired.
****
As you can imagine the following days were filled with grief and confusion. I did not understand why my grandfather had not fired on his opponent, or why Valentine had taken his own life. Father was in a daze and mother was, of course, inconsolable. But arrangements were made, and the funeral followed the traditions and wishes of the late Theodore Harcourt.
After the funeral we assembled in the parlour with Mr. Fawkes, our family solicitor, who then read the Last Will and Testament of Theodore Harcourt. My father, as son and heir, inherited the Blackwood Estate and the publishing empire. I was left Theo’s city bolt-hole, which was an apartment on Hamilton Place at Hyde Park Corner. I was also left a large sum of money that was to be invested into a business, along with monthly stipend for living expenses. Finally, Mr. Fawkes handed me a curious letter addressed in my grandfather’s hand.
The letter sat on my bed room mantle for two full days before I found the courage to open it. I settled onto my bed, a glass of claret on my night stand, and by gaslight I tore the envelope open and pulled the letter out. A gold coin of some sort fell from the envelope and onto my lap. I picked it up and looked at it. The number 36 was impressed on both sides. It didn’t look like the kind of coin one could spend; so maybe it was a gaming counter? Confused, I settled back and read:
“My dearest Percy,
What I’m about to tell you is deeply private. I ask that after reading this letter you burn it so the contents will not bring shame upon the family.”
Well, as opening paragraphs went, this was both alarming and intriguing. I reached for the glass of claret, took a gulp for courage, and then continued.
“It grieves me to write to you in this manner, but I must face the fact that no matter the outcome of the duel, I am at the end of my days and will soon be with my maker. Whoever succeeds, neither Edmund nor I will have won satisfaction in this life.
I have many regrets, but my primary regret is that I did not extend the hand of peace to dear Edmund sooner. You see, it may shock you to learn that Edmund and I had a friendship that secretly stepped beyond the bounds of propriety. I loved him most dearly, more than anyone I’ve ever known, and he loved me in return. We loved in a way we both felt was completely natural, but society and the church would never see it that way.
We did not endeavor upon a physical love until after your grandmother passed away. I was in a state of the deepest grief when I lost Florence, and Edmund offered me comfort. We became entwined in all areas of life and kept the secret of our shared inversion. I cherished those years with him by my side and, you may think it scandalous, but also in my bed. I would not change what we shared for all of the riches in the world.
Our falling out was unexpected and deeply hurtful. Looking back after all these years it sounds childish, and I regret allowing things to become so muddled. You see, men like us cannot marry, and if discovered our love would lead us to prison or the gibbet. Edmund suggested that as we could not marry, we should make our partnership official in another way, by making him part owner on the deeds of Harcourt & Valentine Press. It was my inheritance that financed the opening of the business and I’d wanted both of our names for the publisher to show that we were partners in the enterprise. Edmund wanted more than his name above the door and I was too bloody minded for my own good. I stubbornly refused to share the financial ownership, even though Edmund’s blood, sweat, and tears had help to build the business. Edmund took my refusal as a statement that I no longer loved him. This was entirely untrue. But we were hot-tempered men and so in a fit of pique he left me and set up a rival publishing company. From that day on I have regretted my stubborn nature and wished to reach out to him. But at every turn we butted heads.
