Loved You Once, page 1
Loved You Once
Hollis Shiloh
Published by Spare Words Press, 2022.
"Loved You Once" and "Laurent St. Claire" copyright September 2013 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Loved You Once | by Hollis Shiloh
Laurent St. Claire | by Hollis Shiloh
Epilogue
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Loved You Once
by Hollis Shiloh
1806
Tadwood Hall
"Sander is an ugly little toad."
"He is not!" A familiar voice rose in protest, indignant on his behalf, and ten-year-old Sander Noel Kaye turned in relief to his rescuer.
His best friend was nearly one year younger than he, but already larger and stronger than Sander. It seemed as though Sandy would never grow strong or big, and he certainly knew he would never be good-looking. But he still hated being called a toad.
Cyril's superior smirk transferred from Sander, obviously cataloguing and looking down upon his faults, to face Paul Rotherham, firstborn son of Lord Rotherham. Cyril put a slightly less supercilious look on his face; Paul was not to be trifled with, whereas Sander had no family or money or position, and neither personal strength nor looks to add to his balance sheet. "If not a toad, then what? Perhaps a bug. He's small enough and ugly enough."
"No he isn't!" Possessive arms wrapped around Sander. They were still chubby with baby fat, but they were strong arms, welcome arms. "Sandy's handsome." And he pressed a resounding kiss on Sander's cheek.
Sander felt some of the tension leave his slim frame. Paul still liked him. No matter what, Paul still liked him.
"Come on, Sandy. Let's go play." Tugging his friend after him, Paul turned away, raising his head slightly in a lordly manner, snubbing his cousin Cyril.
"I've seen handsomer rats!" called Cyril after him. "And bigger ones too!"
Sandy bristled, hands forming into fists, but Paul's hand on his arm kept him from turning back. The two boys walked away. "Why does he bother you so?" asked Paul. "Cyril is just a liar."
"No, he's telling the truth. That's what makes me angry," Sandy admitted. "I am small and ugly and not strong. But I don't think that's why he hates me." He wasn't certain why Cyril did hate him, but felt it almost certainly had something to do with his friendship with Paul and because Sandy was poor now.
"He's wrong. You may not be very big, but you are strong. You climbed to the top of the tree when I couldn't and no one else could either. Nobody weak could do that. And you'll be big someday, and you're beautiful right now."
"I'll never be as big or good-looking as you," said Sandy. He'd always been a truthful lad. "But thank you for defending me." They both remembered what happened the last time Sandy lost his temper and punched Cyril. Not only did Cyril repay the favour savagely, but Sandy had been punished for being disrespectfully to his betters. Between the two, he hadn't been able to sit down for nearly a week, nor see out of his black eye.
However, Paul had paid back Cyril in kind and so the rude lad had not been eager to pummel Sandy again.
Paul ruffled Sander's hair, smiling. He didn't speak, but his eyes shown with friendly cheer. He caught Sander in what was halfway a hug, halfway a headlock, and kissed him again soundly on the cheek. His perfect mouth crinkled up in pleasure. "I do love you."
"I know." Sandy sighed and leaned into the pressure, finding no unease in the touch of his dearest friend, where he would have bristled if anyone else had tried to roughhouse with and playfully tousle him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the warmth and safety. "I don't know why you do, but I'm glad."
In the months since his parents' death, he'd had no one else. Paul's parents had taken Sandy in as a favour to their now-deceased neighbours. They'd died in debt; he had no land and no relatives who wanted him, and his situation would have been grim indeed if not for their kindness. Paul, his dearest friend, was by his side so often that sometimes he could forget how unhappy he was. It was good not to be parted from his friend, even though so much else had changed in his life.
"You'll sleep in my room?" asked Paul.
Sandy opened his eyes and nodded fervently. "I don't want to be alone."
"Good. Me neither. Race you to the apple tree!" he crowed, releasing Paul suddenly. He made a wild dash for it, arms flailing by his sides as he ran, slightly bow-legged but nonetheless strong and well-built. Sandy put on a burst of speed and shot past him. He might be a bit weedy for his age, but his legs were long and he ran fast and true. He touched the apple tree a pace ahead of Paul and then collapsed happily under a rough, friendly tackling from his friend. The grass pressed against his back and Paul lay on top of him, and the tree leaves hung comfortably high above in the bright blue sky, and for a moment he was truly happy.
Paul didn't get up right away, but held him down by the shoulders, smiling at him. Their bodies were tangled together, and for some reason Sandy didn't quite understand, he liked this. He wriggled a little more, hoping to enjoy it further, get a little closer. He reached up to tug at Rotherham, pull him closer and maybe get the upper hand in their gentle wrestling game.
"I could kiss you," said Paul in a voice gone funny and quiet. "For real. The way men and women do."
"But we're not men and women. We're children."
"Yes," said Paul, and his eyes held strange secrets. He dipped his head and pressed his lips, lightly and for one second only, on Sander's.
It didn't last long enough for Sander to be certain what he thought of it, but he didn't hate it.
"Do you do that with the girls who visit?" asked Sander, curious. He reached up to wipe his mouth, which was now damp and a bit sticky. Paul did not always wash his face until his governess caught him and made him.
"No." Rotherham frowned down at him. "Don't wipe it off." He bent and placed another there, and this time Sandy tried to give it back. He'd never kissed anyone before, not properly, and it felt strange and nice at the same time, even though it was sticky.
"Will you marry me?" asked Paul suddenly. "Just for secret, for you and me. Nobody else has to know."
"Marry? We can't. I'm a boy and you're a boy."
"Well I know, but I can't marry my sister either and she always wants to pretend that we do. If it's all right to play with her, why isn't it for us? It's not real."
Sandy gave him a push and Paul obligingly climbed off him. "All right. What do I have to do?"
"That's easy. We give each other rings, say 'I do' and kiss, and then we look at each other naked. That's what married people do."
Sandy laughed. "You've seen me naked in the bath."
"This is different," insisted Paul. "It's different when it's not a bath."
"All right. If you want to play marriage, we'll play marriage." It seemed foolish to him. But he loved Paul and would go along with him even when he was being childish. And he felt pleased that Paul wanted to have a secret only with him, nobody else.
"Good!" Paul rose, his smile brilliant. He brushed himself off quickly, and then brushed Sandy off as well, his hands lingering a bit. "We'll do it tonight when we go to bed. You find something for a ring for me and I'll find something for a ring for you."
"All right," agreed Paul quietly. It seemed serious now. "Do we have to have real rings? I don't think I could find one of those."
"No, anything round like a ring." He started to turn away and leave, and then turned back just as abruptly. "I love you." He stood there with his shoulders slightly slumped, his feet planted and his face oddly nervous and embarrassed. His eyelashes looked very long and his face pale and perfect.
"I love you too," said Sander slowly, not certain what was going on, only that he needed to say it and not hesitate. Sometimes, you didn't get a chance to tell people again that you loved them. He thought of his mother and father, and his heart smote him with a sharp pang like knives.
Paul caught his expression. "You don't have to say it too if you don't want."
"No, I wanted to. And I'll get you a good ring, too. Don't worry!" Giving his friend the heartiest smile he could manage, Sander turned and walked away, head down, feet moving fast.
He stayed by himself for the next few hours, out in the fields amongst the haystacks of autumn. He cried a bit about his mother and father, peered at insects and birds, and found some nice long blades of thin grass. These he braided and turned into a ring. It would fit over Rotherham's chubby finger; it was too big for Sandy.
He headed back in time for supper and a scolding. The governess had taken him under her wings even more thoroughly than she had when he was simply a frequent visitor. "You mustn't run off like that. Paul was worried." She gave him a shake. Sandy's gaze flew to his friend. Rotherham was pouting a bit, the way he did when he didn't want anyone to think he wasn't feeling brave and strong.
"I was not," insisted Paul.
The governess continued, "If you stay out till all hours, you'll miss your supper. You need to eat more, Sander. You'll never grow up big and strong if you don't eat properly!"
"I do eat!" Sandy protested. He'd been trying to hold his tongue; scoldings didn't last as long if you could do that. But this w
This earned him a shove and a delighted look from Paul, who seemed to think it was a compliment that he could eat more than a field hand and still be hungry.
The governess was not amused. "You know very well you don't eat at all sometimes. It's these dreadful passions you get yourself into. I'll not have it. Sit down."
Sandy sat, his frown turning into a glare. He hated being reminded of such things—as if it was his fault when...
"It's not him. It's Cyril!" protested Paul, his face intense and earnest. "He picks on Sandy and then Sandy feels ill. You should scold Cyril!"
The governess said he mustn't respond to teasing and certainly he shouldn't let it put him off his food; Sander must grow up a little bit and not be so picky.
He was scowling in earnest by the time the governess left them with their meal. It was rice pudding and bread and butter. As usual, Paul ate the most, but Sander was hungry from his time in the field so he ate nearly as much. He was full and feeling better when Governess came and told them to get ready for bed.
She helped Paul change into his nightgown, his eyes heavy with sleep, but Sander washed, changed, and combed his hair himself. His curls were thick and unruly and he made a face, as he always did, biting his lips because it hurt when the comb snagged his hair. He had thick curls that never cooperated, and a great deal of them. Sometimes he wished he had Rotherham's smooth, dark hair instead of his own hair that couldn't seem to make up its mind what colour it wanted to be.
When Governess tucked them into bed and left the room, the fire was burning cosily in the fireplace—not a big one, because the nights were not terribly cold yet, but big enough to keep the room pleasantly warm, and bright enough to see by.
As soon as her steps had retreated down the hall, Paul rolled over to face Sandy. "Did you get the ring?"
"Uh huh." Sandy covered a yawn. Today had worn him out, emotionally as much as anything.
"Then let's do it. I have one here." He fumbled with something, and Sandy felt metal touch his finger. He jerked back, having expected something made from plants like his own ring. "We should get out of bed. You have to stand up to be married," said Paul. He still sounded like this was terribly important to him, more than it should be. But Sandy didn't question it, simply rose, yawning, and joined his friend in front of the fire.
Paul Rotherham had a gleaming gold ring in one hand. He held it out self-consciously. "I borrowed it from Mum. She said I mustn't lose it." The ring was old, chipped and dented. "I'll have to give it back tomorrow." He sounded disappointed.
"Of course," said Sandy. "But you can keep mine." Shyly, he held out the grass ring he'd nearly forgotten about.
With an exclamation of pleasure, Paul slipped it on and admired it. "It looks perfect. Now you, Sandy." He watched with large, dark eyes as Sandy slid the gold ring onto his thumb. It was still too big, but it would've fallen off his finger.
"Now we say the words," said Paul, in a hushed sort of voice.
"I do," said Sandy solemnly.
"I do too," said Paul. Then in a rush he surged forward and pressed his lips awkwardly against Sandy's. This kiss was longer and less sticky. Sandy tried hard to kiss him back, but he didn't think either of them did very well.
"And we—we look at each other naked," said Paul quietly. He was already hauling his nightgown over his head. In moments, both boys had stripped hastily, shivering a little in the cool room, despite the fire. Sandy regarded Paul, who looked just the same as he always had wearing nothing. One could see he was finely put together, a handsome lad who would be a handsome man someday, but it seemed no different from normal.
Paul, though, watched him with intensity, his eyes drinking the naked Sandy in as if trying to memorise him.
"Let's go back to bed," said Sander, shivering, picking up his gown.
"Not just yet," said Paul, reaching out to stay his hand. "We should go to bed without putting our clothes back on."
"We'll be cold."
"Not under the covers. That's what married people do."
"What, sleep naked?"
"Uh-huh. Naked with each other, and nobody else. That's how they make babies."
"What do you know about babies?" asked Sandy, narrowing his eyes. Their tutor—Rotherham's, but now Sandy's too—said they weren't old enough to know such things yet.
"I know what Cyril said. He says people get naked and that's how women make babies."
"Well, I don't want to make babies. We're not girls anyway."
"I know. We can't really marry each other either." Paul's face crinkled in a frown. He seemed to be trying to work something out, but then gave it up. "Let's go to bed like this anyway." And he caught Sander's hand, and Sander went with him.
They curled together for warmth, giggling once in a while, telling secrets and trying to get warm, and eventually Paul fell asleep, exhausted and with nothing between him and Sander, not even air. His breath was warm and sweet, heavy and deep whilst he slept. It comforted Sandy, and let him sleep, too.
1816
Littlefoot
"I do not see why I should give you a position," drawled Cyril. He was just as much of a prat as he'd been when they were children, thought Sander with growing rage.
"You shouldn't if you don't wish to, of course," said Sandy, keeping his voice steady with what he thought was admirable restraint. "You are not doing me a favour. You are getting yourself the best bookkeeper in the county. It is, of course, up to you whether you wish to do so or not." He turned on his heel and marched from the room.
Cyril didn't call after him, maintaining a dignified and haughty silence, but Sander could almost hear the mockery he was thinking, the same ugly insults he'd thrown as a child. Only then, Sandy had been able to fight back, and Paul—Paul had been there to defend him. Now, he had only his anger as he walked out. And his pride.
He certainly didn't have a job. Work was scarce here. He had no previous experience, only the training of the vicar, a kind and good man, who had taken him in after the Rotherham family had sent him away and sent their son to school.
He hadn't seen Paul since, except once at a distance. It still hurt that their friendship had been torn asunder by adults who didn't understand the games children played. Finding them naked in bed together, wearing rings and with a sleepy Paul groggily insisting they were married had led to whippings, harsh words, and eventually, being sent away. Paul had wept so hard, sometimes Sandy still thought he could hear those childish sounds. Rotherham had cried not because of the beating, but because Sandy was leaving.
The vicar and his wife were kindly but older. They didn't understand the ways of a child, and need for running and laughter. Sander, already wounded from the death of his parents, and now missing his friend dreadfully, had melted into their ways, and they had not realised it should not be that way. He found refuge in books, and the vicar was glad to welcome him there and teach him what he needed to know about many things, including bookkeeping.
And Sander was damned good at it. He would never say damn in front of the vicar, because the man had been kind to him and he did not wish to shock. But he could not live off the aging man forever. The vicar's wife had died last year, and his sister moved in to keep house for him. She found Sander a nuisance, and her constant nagging had made him vow to get a job before the snow flew again. It was easy enough to believe the kind words of his friend, that he was welcome, that he was important in helping with the correspondence and sermon preparation, but her harsh-tongued words cut him deeply; he would never willingly hurt the vicar, and yet the man was not wealthy and Sander being here must be a burden, just as she said it was.
And so he was looking for work. He had even humbled himself enough to ask Rotherham's cousin Cyril. Cyril was now lord of a manor, if a new and not very skilled one. Everyone in the neighbourhood said he was overspending and would bankrupt himself if he didn't get his finances under control. As usual with men of that age (twenty-two), Cyril didn't care what anyone said and was certain he knew best.
Let him spend his fortune and rot in gaol, thought Sander viciously. He scowled on the walk back to the vicarage, kicking at bits of bark and fallen leaves.
