Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER XXIII

"There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast." 

― Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

Without realizing it, Harry had begun a new collection.

Unlike his coin collection, which was made up of objects similar in form and function from all over the world, this collection was made up of different objects from a single source.

Though he had thrown away his invitation to Warwick, he'd kept the envelope and its broken red seal. He'd kept the white flowers Louis tossed in his direction after he won the horse race. They'd wilted but Harry pressed their petals in a book to preserve them. He kept the book of hymns Louis bought for him at the bazaar, the note Louis slipped beneath his pillow, "dearest one," and the stamps that had once belonged to Louis' brother. He had even kept Achilles, Louis' first bittersweet gift.

It was in Harry's nature to collect. Objects were how he made sense of the world. In a panic he found himself wanting more. He wanted a piece of Louis' clothing, his lighter, a half-smoked French cigarette, a lock of hair...

He reached over to touch his lover's side of the bed but it was cool and empty. Louis was awake. He sat at the vanity with his legs crossed, white breeches tucked into black dress boots with brown leather tops. He already donned his hunting pinks. Harry wondered why these jackets were called "pinks" when they were scarlet. Only a gentleman member who had earned his colors was entitled to wear a scarlet jacket. It had gold buttons embossed with the hunt's emblem. Masters signified their position by wearing four buttons and a huntsman, like Louis, wore five. He looked so dashing Harry wanted to undo every one of those shiny well-earned buttons.

He sat up in bed and stretched, smacking his lips drowsily. "May I have a lock of your hair?"

"Whatever for?" The Duke's hands flew up to his head.

"My mother wears a lock of my father's hair."

"Your family is macabre," he said sharply.

"All the widows wear it nowadays."

"I'm alive, Harry!"

Louis rang for Harry's valet. He said they were going for a ride before the hunt. Harry threw himself down on the bed and kicked his legs petulantly. He was nowhere near ready to leave the sanctuary of their bedchamber.

"Come, Harry, the riverbank is where we shared our first kiss."

"This room is where we first made love!" he argued, clinging to the sheets.

Louis joined him on the bed to comfort him. Harry wrapped his arms around the Duke's neck, then scratched at his scarlet jacket like a cat begging to be let in.

Sensing his insecurity, Louis said, "Nothing will change when we step outside that door. I will love you out there as I did in here."

Harry acquiesced.

Charles dressed him in a black oxford hunting jacket with plain black buttons and black dress boots with garters. It wasn't mourning attire but proper etiquette for a gentleman who had not yet earned his colors. All that was missing was the helmet, a brimmed cap with black velvet covering. He tucked it beneath his arm.

He and Louis stepped outside the bedchamber and made their way down the staircase side-by-side as though Warwick now had two masters instead of one.

The men regarded them with suspicion.

Harry's starched collar itched and his palms were sweaty. Anxious as he was he could not seek out the comfort of his lover in the company of others.