Page 2 of The Shooting Season

“Very good sir. If you require any assistance during your stay there is a service bell here.” He directed, pointing to a brass push bell on the wall. Then Cummings left me alone, closing the door succinctly behind him.

I removed my leather gloves from my burning fingers and sagged onto the bed, overcome by a wave of shame and anxiety. I should not have reached out, I should not have touched him. But if I had not I would have landed atop him and that would have been far worse. Was this all in my mind or did the attendant want to offer other services? I had heard talk in my club of men having some exciting trysts on railway journeys. I thought they were mere fancy. But then I’d learned that prostitution on the railways was an open secret, known mainly by those who sought such services or had a friend with whom they shared intimate information. I was appalled that, at a glance, Cummings might have thought me the kind of man who sought an illicit tug from a stranger on a train. What irked me most was that, if I gave in to my darker nature, he would have been right. I was a deviant, a filthy, ungodly deviant. I had tried to deny that part of me. It had been so long since I’d permitted myself intimate contact with a man that I found I’d become half-hard in the mere moments I was pressed to Cummings’s back. I wonder, did he notice? Gods, I was pathetic. I must repress my urges. I did not want these erotic thoughts. I could hold the need in for only so long before my body betrayed me—then I saw to myself and felt completely wretched afterward.

I slumped back on the bed and my collar felt all too restrictive around my throat. I reached and unhooked it, then undid the top button of my shirt. I slipped my trembling fingers inside and pulled out the warm silver cross that hung around my neck. I caressed it, seeking comfort. I prayed, begging the Lord's forgiveness for my sinful thoughts. After several minutes of prayer, I regained my sober mask, righted myself, opened my overnight case, and set out my pyjamas, my slippers, and my toileting bag. Then I left the cabin, locking the door behind me and returned to the lounge car. I needed a stiff drink!

As I walked the narrow corridor, rocking back and forth with the gait of the train, I looked out of the picture windows framing one side of the carriage which displayed the built-up cityscape of London with a grey pea-souper fug hanging low like a malevolent cloud. I was glad to be leaving the filthy city, heading for fresh air, glorious vistas and of course the item from Lord Ardmillan’s collection that I had coveted for the past thirty years.

On entering the lounge a haze of cigar smoke hung in the air, and the deep rumbling laughter of gentlemen in conversation jarred me from the fugue state that the clickety-clack of the train workings had temporarily put me in. There were fifteen high backed leather chairs grouped in two’s and three’s around the lounge, with small side tables. Seven men were seated, and of course, no women. If a woman were to take the Caledonian Sleeper, for propriety’s sake, she and her companion would stay in their compartment for the duration of the journey.

Two somber suited, grey whiskered elderly gentlemen were seated opposite one another on my left, locked in a battle of wills over a game of dominoes. One of the men looked up, caught my eye, and nodded a stern greeting. Four men of business sat together indulging in a game of whist and some banter. Then, I saw a seventh man sitting alone, a blue-grey cloud of pipe smoke swirled from behind an opened copy of The Times Newspaper shrouding his face. The headline writ large across the cover spoke of a thief on the loose. The man’s legs were crossed, but what caught my eye was that he wore the most splendid two-tone inky black and cognac russet leather ankle boots. I knew immediately that these were the handiwork of the famous Mr. Edwin Clapp of Massachusetts for they were much in demand among the fashionable men of London society.

I was still a little flustered from the unfortunate incident in my sleeping compartment and wished for refreshments and silent contemplation. And so, spotting a pair of unoccupied chairs at the end of the lounge carriage I vowed I would sit quietly, take my supper, drink a glass of Port wine, and watch the hours of darkness go by until I became sleepy enough to retire.

I sat heavily in the straight-backed claret leather chair, rested my head, and closed my eyes. I listened to the musical cadenced sounds of the train wheels on the steel track below. I had always found the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train to be lulling. I let my mind wander and was near in a doze when a light Scots voice said,

“Mr. Hannan, sir, I have the supper you requested.”

I opened my eyes to see Cummings leaning over me, his eyes sparkling in the light of the crystal wall sconce. He held a tray with food and a goblet of warm mulled Port, the steam dancing from the lip of the cup. He bent and laid the tray on my lap, and then unraveled a napkin.

I waved my hand. “That will do, thank you. I can tend to myself.” I grumbled morosely. With my peculiar mood, I did not want this man’s attention any longer than necessary. He passed the napkin to me, nodded, and turned to go. My betraying eyes darted to observe the roundness of his firm young buttocks. No, no, no. What was I doing? My hand automatically leaped to my chest so I could feel the shape of my silver cross and banish the impure thoughts from my head.

Before me, on the platter, I had been served a hearty vegetable broth, with warm buttered crumpets. I took a deep draught from the goblet and sighed as the hot spicy Port caused a conflagration in my belly, warming me through.

I ate in silence. To the right of my chair, I could see the nightscape rushing past the window, and to the left, I could see the legs and dazzling ankle boots of the traveler. Watching the silver-tipped laces shimmer and sparkle as the man’s body moved with the jerks and shudders of the train made me smile. I admired a man who was not afraid to step out of line and display his individuality. He was the kind of man I would never be.

Cummings returned to take my empty tray. I paid him no mind, looking away and focusing on the view through my window. I watched the smoggy cityscapes vanish as we sped down the track, to be replaced by a clear starry night sky. Silhouettes of trees gave form to the distant countryside of Buckinghamshire, and my own cheerless reflection in the window was my ever-constant companion.

“Excuse me, my friend?” I looked up to see a finely attired man standing beside the empty chair in front of me.

“Would you care for a little company? Railway journeys can be frightfully boring, don’t you think?”

I was immediately taken by the way he addressed me as his friend and that his accent was of the Americas. I did not believe I had many friends these days, more colleagues, and acquaintances. I was intrigued. My eyes raked the man’s well-cut form. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his hair was dark brown and worn to his nape. He displayed a thick beard that framed a squared jaw and near feminine lips. He had curiously sad hazel eyes, and I felt a pang of sympathy, for he had clearly traveled a long way, was lonely and in want of a companion. I was not completely unsociable and did enjoy conversation, so I let my guard down and gestured to the chair in front of me. The man sat, clasped his hands on his lap and his smile lit up his whole face, making him appear years younger than I had initially believed. That smile made my innards coil.

“Forgive my impertinence sir,” He said. “But have we met before? I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”

The approach was startling and unexpected. I kept a small circle of confidants. My acquaintances at the club were primarily from my school days, or clients of my auction house who kept my favor so that they might find an advantage when something they wanted to purchase came to market. I had not seen this man before, I was sure of it. I would have known, after all, the man’s American accent, stylish garb, and confident attitude were traits I was attracted to and would have remembered.

“I don’t believe we have met before,” I admitted.

“John Edwards of Massachusetts,” The man said, his hand reaching for mine. I was not wearing my leather gloves and an awkward moment hung in the air as I looked at the man’s naked skin. His hand was slender, pale and his fingers were long and nails manicured. My heart throbbed with the anxiety of what I was about to do. I fixed my features, hiding my discomfiture.

“Benedict Hannan”, I introduced leaning forward to take his hand.

“Charmed,” Edwards drawled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edwards,” I said as our skin touched and fingers entwined. His hand felt small and soft in my own large oafish hand but touching his skin did not make me erupt into a ball of flame, in fact, it felt surprisingly good.

“Oh, please, call me John!” He said in a manner so boyish that it made my gut clench for reasons I did not want to think of.

“Very well, then you must call me Ben.” I cajoled.

“I’d rather call you Benedict. It’s such a lovely distinguished name, don’t you think?” John admitted, unmanning me as his cheeks coloured.

If I had not consumed my goblet of Port and felt the relaxing warmth of the liquor in my veins I would have reacted differently, and steered my behavior in another direction, but I as had drunk the whole cup and wanted a second, I looked at the intriguing American who sought my company, and smiled.

Mr. John Edwards and I conversed for hours. He spoke of his journey across the Atlantic. I learned that John enjoyed art and antiquities, was well-traveled, and appeared to be moneyed. I did not realize the lateness of the hour until I noticed we were together alone in the lounge, the other travelers having gone to bed. I checked my pocket watch and saw it was one a.m.

“Goodness. We quite lost ourselves!” I said meeting John’s smiling eyes.