Duke of Camellias

THIRTY-FOUR

The next few days Blair got better, and by the first week of March they moved to Laurence's place, by a carriage.

His place was full of bric-a-bracs, a vase from a pawnshop filled with feathers he had collected, a painting by some third-degree artist, a Tanagra statuette, and a cigarette case with chipped turquoise paint. The windows had tasseled olive curtains, there were chairs, but no couches, and the rug was worn and once patterned. At the dining table, less than a third the size of the one at the Duke's, he presented a bottle filled halfway with water and a few daisies rested in.

"Just bloomed this morning," he said proudly. "Isn't that something? There's a coffee place at this piazza under linden trees, are are very fragrant during spring. We must go by April." Blair nodded as the man passed him bread and butter. Although he wasn't rich by any means, Laurence knew how to enjoy the pleasures of life.

"You buy many interesting things," he remarked slowly to his host, hoping not to offend him. Laurence looked proud.

"I adore used things. They have life to them. Everything has life once they are loved."

Blair gave a small smile. Laurence grinned, noting the life that had returned to Blair's cheeks.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked. "Sightseeing around London? There's a pub I recommend—"

"No!" Blair realized the sharpness in his tone and recoiled. Laurence understood, and didn't press on. Blair was thankful.

"What about Duckmoor Park? They have this beautiful lake, and since it's spring, some flowers should've bloomed. Either way, it's nice for viewing."

"Sounds good." Blair was appeased by the name he didn't recognize, and didn't remind him of Charles, or Christopher. They decided on that. Daphne had made them cucumber sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper that morning when they left, and they decided to have it for luncheon at the park.

They hailed another brougham, and as guilty as Blair felt, he didn't have any shillings to help pay. 

"Is it far?" Blair asked. Laurence shook his head.

"No, but you're a sick person. I can't have you catching a chill again, now." Blair felt awful. Laurence and Morris were always watching out for him, sending him letters, meeting him during Christmas, and even going to the Duke's house themselves just to warn him. And he had forwent their time, again and again.

They rode the carriage without talking, and when it finally arrived at their destination, Laurence offered a hand and gently led Blair down. They were at a park, a large one, but only small plants had bloomed, and there was only green and brown.

Laurence noticed, too, and laughed sheepishly.

"Well, there's beautiful statues here, too. Made by some famous sculpture, can't seem to recall his name, though."

"It's a fine park," Blair said, trying to comfort him. "I have never seen statues up close."

He wandered about to a large statue of a women, holding flowers in her hand, and a basket looped around the crook of her arm. She had a soft, but melancholic smile, and Blair was reminded of the Duke. Beautiful, and unhappy Charles. He bit his lips. No, he couldn't ruin the evening by thinking of him.

Laurence led him to some benches through a cobblestone path. There were several green bushes, not one with flowers, and Laurence wiped down the morning dew on a black bench before they sat down. It was cold, but Blair pretended it was fine. They took out their wrapped sandwiches and began to eat. It was cold, but this time Blair enjoyed it.

The two didn't talk, but a bell nearby rand out, loud and clear, and some people walked by, men swinging their canes, women taking small steps, their bustled skirts bobbing about.