Page 22 of The Songbird of Wychwood

CHAPTER 16

PERCY

I liked George’s cozy apartment room above the theater, with its artistically draped oriental silks, French brocades, and voiles. It was unconventional and bohemian, not dour and dark like my own lackluster rooms at Blackwood Hall. I was always drawn to the romantic, artistic life and would have chosen to be a writer if I hadn’t been saddled with the inherited pressure of the family business. I knew I was luckier than most in that I not only received a university education, but on graduation, I walked straight into a career, within Harcourt Press.

I was an only child, a son and heir, and I’d never had a say on how I chose to live my life. My grandfather and father decided the trajectory my life would take when I was born. I’d attended boarding school at Harrow from the age of ten to eighteen, and then went onto study English at Cambridge. Mother decided that I would marry by the age of twenty-eight and give her at least three grandchildren. And thus, it was the tradition of well-connected families to enhance their standing through marriage. Many grubby men of business were keen to marry off their daughter to me in a bid to be connected to the Harcourt Press Empire. I’d respectfully fought against all possible pairings presented to me since I’d joined the family business. They were all fine girls, I was sure, but no, not for me. I was determined I would not imprison a girl in a loveless marriage, not for my mother, not for anyone. I would rather remain a bachelor and damn this prison of family duty to hell!

In my everyday life I would never dare to indulge in a lingering look at a handsome gentleman. So terrified was I of somebody seeing me looking at a man in a lustful way that I suppose I switched myself off and became agreeable Percy, the boss’s son. But here, now, I watched George stride gracefully across his room and as I had no doubts about his preference or his attraction to me, I openly admired his powerful athletic thighs and calves and my, what a fine arse! I smoothed my moustache and licked my lips. When I’d met George as Miss Georgette, he was wearing a lady’s gown and so I hadn’t witnessed the exquisite masculine shape of him. Tonight, having recently come off stage he wore loose, casual clothing, navy blue trousers, a white cotton undershirt with a low neckline and black braces, with navy felt slippers on his feet. His physique was virtually that of a ballet dancer, robust shapely thighs, nicely muscled buttocks, a flat abdomen, and sharp boned shoulders. I could see the androgyny in his face and how, depending on the application of greasepaint, he could appear masculine or feminine. I was quite in awe, bedazzled by his mercurial nature, and I could not help but look my fill. For who knew how this meeting would progress, and after tonight, I might never have the honour of a second invitation to his room. I realized then that George was talking. He paused and pivoted to meet my gaze. Our looks collided and heat burned through me. He turned away first.

“I’ll, um, put the kettle on,” he said nervously and even his nervousness made heat coil in my belly. I supposed I’d drunk a fair bit with my colleagues so that explained why I was so feather headed, but it didn’t explain why I was tongue tied, embarrassingly so. I found I was incredibly hot, and yet I was frozen to the spot. What the devil was wrong with me? I’d never been so overwhelmed by my attraction to any man.

George busied himself setting a kettle of water on the stove and then putting a teapot, cups, and saucers on a tray. He was coming over with the tray now and I supposed I’d better sit down. I willed my legs to move. I removed my coat and hung it on a hook behind the door, and then I hurried to the couch where I picked up some of the papers that were strewn there so I could sit. I glanced down at the sheaf of papers I held and realized they were manuscript papers and notes…for poems, or song lyrics.

George set the tray on the steamer trunk and sat down on the far end of the couch. I was stunned, joyfully so when he told me he wrote because that meant we both shared a love of words.

Oftentimes a composer worked with a lyricist and would then have the songs published in a manuscript book and sold widely. Singers could purchase the books and perform what was popular with the general public while the composer received a cut of the royalties from sales. But George composed, wrote, and performed his songs. He was a unique talent and I couldn’t quite believe an actor with such dazzling flair wasn’t on stage at the Gaiety, or snapped up to be off touring America.

“I was um…touched by the poem in your note,” he said softly, “It was lovely.”

“Oh, thank you.” I felt the heat rise to colour my cheeks. “I…I write too,” I revealed awkwardly, “But I guess you know that already,” I fumbled. ”I mostly write poetry.”

“Is that your profession? Are you a poet?”

“Oh, no, no I’m an editor…for the Archaeological Journal. Although, I do endeavor to become a real poet.”

“How does one become a real poet? The way I see it, if you write poetry, you’re a poet!”

He was right of course, “My dream is to publish a book of poetry. I hope to do so this year, so I guess, then I will believe I’m a real poet.”

“And how will you do that…publish your poetry?”

“I’m rather lucky on that score. My family owns a publisher…not of books, of newspapers, and periodicals. Harcourt Press,” I revealed. George’s brows rose with interest.

“I’ve heard of them, they print the Daily Gazette, don’t they! So, you can get a print book made of your poetry? That’s exciting. I’d buy a copy! Would you sign it for me?” His smile was intoxicating.

I wished I had the courage to tell him that if this book did come into being it was because of him, and how his mercurial beauty inspired me.

“So, how do you like your tea?” he asked as he picked up the tea strainer, held it over one of the teacups, and poured.

“Hot is always good,” I joked.

George laughed and triumphant pleasure rushed through me at knowing I had made this clever actor laugh. He poured a second cup.

“How old are you, Percy Harcourt?” he asked in a low, playful tone.

“Twenty-six, and you?”

“What do you think?” George teased, stirring a spoonful of honey into his black tea.

“Hmmm…” I considered his profile, and feeling the boldness of the beer I’d consumed earlier, I leaned in, cupped his cheek with my palm and made him turn to face me. I had never acted so audaciously in all my days, but here with George it felt safe to be me. The teaspoon was abandoned in the teacup as I claimed George’s full attention. His skin was smooth, freshly shaved. His mousy brown hair with natural waves was adorable. I traced my thumb over his cheek and then lower to gently slide over his plump lower lip. I pinned him with my eyes all the while, noting the fierce challenging look he sent in return.

“Maybe twenty-one or twenty t—“

I never got to complete my sentence because George launched himself across the couch and pressed his lips to mine.

Everything changed then.

I wasn’t in the habit of kissing a fellow on the mouth because I was terrified of someone finding out and reporting me to my father, or to the authorities! But, given the chance with a man who understood—.