AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No, I’m afraid it’s not.” Harley shook his head sadly. He sighed and cast his eyes to the floor. “I’ve had the morbs for the longest time now. I confess, it’s made me both hollow and rude.”
“I’ll agree that you weren’t exactly easy to get to know, Mister Devonshire.”
“I said I was sorry, all right?” Harley barked, his mood switching from morose to agitated in a split second, only for it to revert back to sullen. “Apologies. I didn’t mean that outburst. Please, forgive me.”
“Of course, Mister Devonshire,” Lightfoot said. He couldn’t expect a complete turnaround in character. That was purely unrealistic. “Consider it water under the bridge.”
Harley’s lips curled coyly, and he extended his hand for Lightfoot to shake. “Call me Harley.”
Lightfoot took Harley’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Call me Asher.”
The two didn’t let go of one another’s hands. At least, not right away.
Chapter Thirteen
It surprised Harley how much he’d grown so accustomed to spending time with Asher. He wasn’t used to unravelling for someone over such a short period of time, but he found the gentleman to be thrilling. It had nothing to do with Asher’s physical appearance or his charm, but everything to do with the philosophies, theories and cultural insights that spilled from the gentleman’s mouth like sweet wine. He was learned. Well-travelled to boot. So much so, Harley felt moronic and insignificant in his presence, and while that would normally unnerve the lad and harden his shell, he found that in this case it piqued his interest even more. He strived to be better, not necessarily to impress Asher, but to prove to himself that he could be.
Since Lightfoot joined the Devonshires for a luncheon, Harley had seen him every day since. It was surreal, to a point. Meeting with someone new and so often should have been awkward, but it was anything but. Harley discovered that his hankering for privacy and his own space began to diminish, as his conversations with the Dutch banking officer brought on a second wind of inspiration. He was seeing his world for what it was, like he had during those pleasurable months with Theodore. The axiomatic gauze was lifted from his eyes. He was energized enough to take hold of his pencils, dust off his neglected sketchbooks and finally draw.
And how Harley drew! Late into the evenings, early before dawn broke — he wouldn’t allow anything to distract him from his newfound creative flow. He only took breaks when Asher visited, and when those moments arose, the man held Harley’s attention wholly.
They sightsaw various locations of the Colony Asher hadn’t had an opportunity to visit.
On Monday, the two took a stroll along the Victoria Docks and watched the fishermen in their oil skins and woollen sweaters bring in their day’s haul. Harley wanted to capture the moment, how Table Mountain dwarfed the dock like a prophetic deity of times long forgotten, in particular. As he opened his sketchbook and began drawing simple line work, a drunk sailor, no doubt returning from a benjo in town, stumbled into Harley with a loud belch. The book fell from Harley’s hands and met the mossy stones of the dock by his feet.
“You addle pate fuckster!” Harley groaned, unable to resist the anger that simmered in his gut and broke through his skin. He knew sailors were crass, had even witnessed groups of them cause a ruckus in town from time to time. But intoxicated or not, stumbling into an individual without so much as an apology was vulgar.
Naturally, the sailor didn’t respond as politely as a man of Harley’s stature would have to the insult, and grabbed the lad by the throat. Harley winced as the sailor’s filthy nails pierced the tender flesh of his neck.
Before he could even comprehend the gravity of the potentially dangerous situation, Harley sensed Asher at his side almost at once.
“Hey,” Asher said to the sailor, almost in greeting.
Asher pulled a beige handkerchief from a pocket of his frock coat and threw it in the man’s face, compelling the sailor to let go of Harley. When he did, Asher struck him fast and hard where his nose was covered. Knuckles met fabric and bone with a repulsive crunch. The beige handkerchief darkened and the sailor yelped, fell over backwards and collapsed on the moist dock ground.
Harley had been in awe of the brief, but savage performance.
“It’s Bartitsu,” Asher said as though the feat he’d pulled was nothing. “I partook in pugilism during my university days.”
When Harley begged Asher to teach him a few moves, the gentleman. Shook his head and offered a lopsided grin. “A lad like you shouldn’t learn any form of defence. You’re next to royalty. You can pay someone to protect you.”
Harley wanted to ask Asher if he could pay him for protection as a jest, but thought it was too forward a comment to make so he kept quiet instead.
On Tuesday evening, Harley arranged two tickets from a friend of his father’s, Captain Disney Roebuck, to see the Jubilee Singers at the Theatre Royal on Burg Street. The troupe were touring the Colony from the Americas, and the reviews of their performance in The Argus and Cape Times were phenomenal. Watching the acapella group on the lavish stage had been a tremendous experience, but that wasn’t what captured Harley’s attention that evening. Asher’s knee gently brushing against his during the show did.
It filled his mind with questions. Was Asher doing it on purpose, or was he completely oblivious to the contact? Thoughts of their conversation at the museum raked over his brain while the Jubilee Singers came to life and burst out in gorgeous song on stage. More than friends, then? The question weighed on Harley’s shoulders like peridotite rocks. Perhaps he was reading into too many things for no reason at all.
There was an undoubtable attraction he felt for Asher. That much he knew. But was the attraction capable of adapting into something more?
On Wednesday afternoon, the dressmaker and tailor arrived at Harley’s home to deliver the gown and evening suit for him and his mother. It was an uncomfortable reminder that he still hadn’t asked a soul to accompany him to the Rhodes party. He considered inviting Asher, but he didn’t think the gentleman would enjoy a pretentious party inclusive of snobbish mining magnates, politicians and the general Colony elite in the least.
Later that evening, Asher arrived for dinner and brought up the idea of visiting Queen’s Beach in Sea Point the next day. Naturally, Harley agreed. He loved the area — squeezed between Lion’s Head and Rump, and the vast Atlantic Ocean stretching out into the horizon.
They entertained Harley’s mother for a good two hours before the flirtatious crone excused herself for the night. The weather was warm, so the young men decided to sit outside in the conservatory surrounded by a handful of lit candles. Dappled moonlight shone through the leaves and branches of the flora as Harley told Asher to remain as still as possible while he got to work on the first sketch of a human he had drawn in months. He was nervous to get started on the illustration — he couldn’t bear the end result looking childish.
Asher had marvellous eyebrows and his hair was styled with a precision that made Harley believe he was a gentleman who cared about how he presented himself. He sought to bring out Asher’s captivating features in the sketch. He wanted Asher to approve of his skills as an artist, though wasn’t sure why.
A lock of Harley’s hair fell over his eyes as he sketched, but he was too caught up in the moment to push it back into place.
