Behind Every Good Man, page 1
Behind Every Good Man
by
Rebecca Milton
Copyright 2022 Rebecca Milton
Distributed by Smashwords
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My dearest Lord Alvert,
I love you.
There, I have written it, I have said it, and I stand by it. I am committed to it. I am thrilled by it. That, my dearest Lord, is the most honest and the most difficult sentence I have written to you in, our now, four-year friendship. If you think I have not thought the sentence, burned with the reality of the emotion since the moment we met then, I am afraid, you do not know me as well as I wish.
To be fair, you could not and, even to this moment, you cannot know me that well. But, truly, know, whatever the outcome, I love you. I have and I always will.
From here on I will dispense with the formalities of title and rank. I will drop the pretense of honorable friendship. I will allow my woman’s heart, so long hidden, so long clothed in deceit, to have its way and I will call you, as I have so longed to call you, my most darling Eric.
Oh my heart, it aches with an elation of utmost joy and, immediately thereafter, a plunging sorrow to write that to you. My darling Eric. In my dream, one that I have repeatedly dreamt, I stand with you in a field, I pull your body to me, I press my lips against yours and I whisper to you, my darling Eric. I run too swiftly here. I am out of sorts, I am out of order and you are reading this ... if you do read this, with no context. I will amend that now, but, again, I wish to reiterate, because it must be done, that I love you. So, I will proceed.
It has been two days since your seconds came to me and issued the challenge from you. Two days since I read the letter, in your lovely hand, accusing me of trying to steal the affections of Lady Bishop from you. Two days since you accused me of going behind your back, of using your status and our friendship to fabricate a match for myself, above my station and at the cost of your presence in my life.
Two days. And for those two days, I have paced the floors of my miserable rooms and burned with a seemingly unanswerable question of how to respond to you. Yes, I know I sent you my reply. I know we have set the time, tomorrow morning at dawn, swords in Chlemsforth field. I know I agreed to this but believe me when I tell you, I was confused, distraught and terrified. I felt cornered and did not know what else to do. For two days, I have worried and wept, sweated and shouted at the gods my anger and my hate. Late last night, exhausted, I fell to the floor in a heap and slept. In my dreams, the answer came to me: tell the truth. So, I am now going to do just that. Tell you the truth. I have begun already, the most difficult part really, telling you of my feelings. Now, I shall endeavor to fill in the rest.
Let me begin, as all good stories should, at the beginning.
***
My mother died in childbirth. She was much beloved by my father, and when she passed, relatives have since told me, he experienced a heartbreak beyond all bounds. Beyond consolation. Beyond, it may be said, human reason. So great was his sadness that for the first two years of my life, he could not even look upon me. I was raised at a distance, in the same house, but in separate rooms, by nannies and nurses. I had no contact with my father and, truly, if I had to say, I would have guessed the old gentleman, Crenshaw, the chief butler in-house, was my father. He was the male figure I saw always and often. He was kind with me, gentle and attentive. Still, even at a young age, I felt a distance.
On the occasion of my second birthday, I was brought by Nannie Arjonte, dressed in my finest, into a large room on the bottom floor of the manor in which I had never been. Never even seen before. She held my hand as I tottered through the doors and was brought to the middle of the room. There was a huge fireplace and before it sat a man. His back was to me, his face to the flames, his body slightly hunched.
“Bring her to me,” I recall him saying and, again, even at that small age, I could sense in his voice a sorrow, a darkness.
I was not afraid of the man; I had no reason to be. I had been shown nothing but kindness and goodness since I was able to remember. Why, I reasoned, would that change now? Why would Nannie Arjonte put me in any kind of danger? She took my hand again and led me slowly to the man’s side. He did not look at me. I stood still, straight and solid as I had been taught and waited.
“Happy birthday,” the man said and I could tell it was a great struggle for him to say the words.
I thanked him and gave a little curtsey. At my voice, the sound of it, he turned. His face was very strong, very handsome but, streaked with tears and etched with sorrow. He stared at me. I stood frozen.
“Too much,” he said at last, “she looks too much like her.” He buried his face in his hands, and he wept.
Nannie grabbed my hand and started me out of the room. At the door, I broke from her and ran back to the man. I put my small hand on his shoulder and whispered to him, “Please don’t cry, it will all be better, I know it.” Then, I went back to Nannie.
As we were leaving, I heard him say, very softly, “Thank you, child.”
Outside the room, I looked up at Nannie, and she smiled at me. She touched my hair and told me I was a good girl.
“Who was that man,” I asked, and she lifted me up so she could whisper in my ear.
“That is your father,” she said.
I did not see him again for three more years.
My life was good. I was well cared for; I was showered with love, and I had not a want in the world. Apart from a mother and a father. I did not dwell on what I didn’t have and joyed in what I did have. On my fifth birthday, my father came to my rooms. He was unannounced, and my nannie and nurse seemed shocked when he stepped through the doors. They stood dutifully, and he strode across the room and stared down at me. I greeted him, smiled, curtseyed, as I had whenever I met an adult, and he just stared.
I want to assure you, my darling Eric, that I was not physically abused. I was not neglected in any manner, really. I had lovely clothes to wear. I had good food. I had all the warmth and love a girl of that age could desire. I am not condemning my father for his choice; I am simply explaining it to you now. Understand that.
As my father stood, looking down at me, I saw his face begin to shudder, and I knew that he was going to weep again. Although I had spent no time with him, I felt deeply that I loved him, and I wanted to do whatever I could to help him.
“Where is my mother,” I asked him and the room went deathly silent.
“She died,” he told me, his lips quivering, his hands beginning to shake, “bringing you into this world.”
I have no idea why I said what I said next. I was still quite young but, even in my youth, I was well-educated, and I was quite precocious. Still, what I said next, I believe, determined my future and my relationship with my father.
“That is a debt I can never repay but, I will do my best my entire life to try.”
A five-year-old girl. How I came up with that, I will never know but, I tell you this, Eric, I meant it. I truly meant it. I still do.
There was a lightening in the room. My father’s face, once a trembling mass of sorrow, relaxed and he gave me a smile. The room responded to this, and I felt like I had dispelled a great darkness that had loomed over the house for a long time. My father knelt down and looked into my eyes. He put his hands on my shoulders, the first contact I had with him, and he spoke to me. He spoke to me like an adult. He did not talk down to this child; he spoke to me like an equal. Like I was someone much older and wiser.
“Gabriella,” he said, “your mother was the one true love in all my life. She can never be replaced. She can never be matched. I will never love again, and I will never try to do so. Understand me, I care about you, I will make sure you have a good life and you will never want for anything. However, you look too much like her. You look so much like her that when I see you, it causes the wounds to open again, and I relive her death. I am sorry, little girl, but, I cannot ... I simply cannot.”
He then, with great effort, kissed my cheek and rose. He walked to the door, stopped and turned.
“I know, in my heart of hearts, you are a good person, and you will grow to be a great woman.” Then he was gone.
My nurse and nannies, the servants, gathered around me and told me how brave I was, how good I was. I just stared at the spot where my father once was and thought.
“He is a good man,” I said and they all nodded and agreed.
“He means no harm to you, child,” Crenshaw said. “His sorrow is just … it’s too much.”
“I want to make his sorrow go away,” I told them and they thought I was being sweet and darling. I meant it, however. In our short interaction, I realized the depth of my love for my father, the reality of the sacrifice of my mother and I was determined to make a difference in his life.
***
You see, my dearest Eric, it was my choice, my idea from the very beginning. I did not become who I am, who you know, to deceive. I did so to give my father some peace. I want you to understand that my intentions were always good.
I struggled. For the next two weeks, I thought and thought about how to make my father less sad. Then one afternoo
I told Nannie to ask Christian for some of the boy’s clothes and to bring them to me in my room. She went to do so, and I went to my room. I took a pair of scissors from Nannie’s sewing kit, and I cut off a great deal of my hair. I slicked it back with soap and water and actually, was proud of the results. When Nannie returned with the clothes, she was horrified. I calmed her down, told her my plan and dressed in the boy’s clothes. The result was ... well, it was perfect. I looked exactly like a little boy.
I instructed Nannie and the others never to call me Gabriella again; I was to be Gabriel from that day forth. I thought myself so clever, and I will be forever thankful to those good people for not stepping on my desire to help my father with the realities of becoming a boy. I stood before the mirror, and they all remarked that I did indeed, look like a boy.
Proud and determined, I went downstairs and knocked on the door of my father’s study. He called for me to enter. When I did, I found him with two other men, heatedly talking business. He looked at me, and I could tell, he had no idea what to make of me or even who I was. The conversation stopped, and the other two men stared at me.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” I said, trying to stand and hold myself the way a boy would. “Father, I did not realize you were conducting business, I will come back later.”
Before I left, I approached each of the men and shook their hands.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” I told them. “I am Gabriel Johan, Father’s son.”
The men were impressed with me, the way I carried myself and they congratulated my father on having such a fine, smart and polite son. A moment passed, and he said nothing, he just stared at me. I feared what would happen. Then, he smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “I am very lucky and very proud to have such a fine, well-behaved and precocious ... son.”
Right there, at that moment, the silent agreement was struck. We never had to speak of it again. He thanked me for coming by, told me we would speak later and referred to me, for the rest of his life, as Gabriel.
***
You must understand, my dear Eric, I was young, and I felt so responsible for the death of my mother and the great sorrow that I brought into my father’s life. I wished not to be that burden in his days that brought him only sorrow. If you could have met my father, you would understand this even more. He was kind and gentle, wise and decent. Even in my youth I could tell he was an exceptional man. I was compelled to do what I could for him.
He sent for the tailor, and I was suited with new clothes. Men’s clothes. Unlike the other little girls in the village, I was not taught to cook and sew, clean and what to expect when I grew up and became a wife. I was taught reading and arithmetic. I was schooled in horse riding and business. My father brought me along on business trips, and I was introduced to everyone as his son, Gabriel. All was well when I was young. I took to my studies easily, and I excelled. I was seen as a fine young man with good and gentle manners.
As I grew older, it became more difficult. But with the help of Nannie and Nurse, I was able to circumnavigate all the problems that a girl pretending to be a boy would encounter. When I grew and developed breasts, Nannie would help dress me in the morning, binding my breasts down tightly with strips of muslin, making sure they were not noticeable at all. At first, yes, it was painful however when I would come to the breakfast table and see the look on my father’s face, the sorrow gone like a winter storm blow out to sea, I told myself I could bear a little discomfort so that he never had to suffer again.
When I was to start at university, I was worried. There would be times, I was afraid, when I would have to be with boys and what would I do? Living in a room with a boy, how would that work? I thought perhaps I would just drop the pretense while I was away and live as a girl. However, I had already been accepted to the school as Gabriel Johan. My father came to me one night in my study, and we sat by the fire. He poured us each a glass of whiskey, and we stared into the flames for some time.
“Soon, you’ll be going away to school,” he said, his voice low and grave, “so perhaps it’s time to ... change again. Time to put things as they were and you should ...” he trailed off but, I understood. He was giving me the chance to go back, to be a girl again. It would solve the problem for me but, it would not solve it for him. He looked at me for an answer.
“I am glad you’ve brought this up, father. I have meant to talk to you about it. I am very particular you know. You have influenced me in that manner and I don’t think I would function well in dorms or living with other boys my age. I have met some of them, and none seem as serious or as dedicated to studies as I am. It would inevitably be a distraction. This is why I think it would be best for my education if you were to secure rooms for me where I could live alone. Yes, I do believe that would be best for me, give me the best chance of succeeding at school.”
I had found a way for us to continue, for us to live as we had and to keep the agreement going. He asked if I truly believed that was the best way. He was trying to be fair, to think of me, thus was the depth of his goodness. Strongly, I assured him it was. So, rooms were secured, Crenshaw sent his nephew, a man a few years younger than himself, along with me to be my man. He was sworn to secrecy, well paid and instructed by Nannie and Nurse on what to do. He was more than happy to go, having lovely rooms of his own to dwell in, days off and a very generous salary.
The train ride to school was a two-day affair and on the journey I allowed Stephens, the nephew, to ask any and all questions, get them out of his system once and for all. He asked my likes, dislikes, needs and kept it completely businesslike and proper. I trusted him immediately, and he never gave me a moment’s doubt. To this day, he is my confessor and companion, and I know he would do anything to keep my secret.
***
School was, as I am sure you can imagine, a combination of thrilling and a few close calls. I loved my studies and, as you well know, excelled greatly. I grew deeply in love with the law and dedicated all my free hours to the study thereof. I had a few friends. I was invited to parties and balls. Sometimes I would go, needing the company of others. Occasionally, I found myself drinking a little too much and going on about some woman’s gown a little too expressively.
