“Don’t,” he said again.
That night, they’d lain together in the narrow bed, listening to the swooshing tide of Lake Pontchartrain eddying about the pilings beneath the cabin. Louis’s stubble rubbed Henry’s cheeks raw, but he wouldn’t have stopped kissing him for anything. There were hands and mouths and tongues. They were sweaty with exploration and pleasure. Afterward, they lay entwined, Henry falling asleep to the soft warmth of Louis’s breath on his shoulder, while out on the streets of the West End, the party raged on.
Henry’s father returned on a Friday in August as the summer was dwindling to a close. From his chair in the library, he appraised his bronzed and freckled son. “You seem to have recovered your health, Hal.”
“Yes, Father,” Henry said.
“The school will be pleased to hear it.”
Henry’s heart beat so quickly he wondered if his father could hear it from across the broad expanse of Persian carpet. “I was thinking that perhaps I could finish school here. In New Orleans.”
His father peered around the edge of his open newspaper. “Why?”
“I could help with Mother,” he lied.
“We have servants and a doctor for that.” The newspaper barrier went back up.
“I’d like to stay,” Henry tried. He willed himself not to cry. “Please.”
“I’ve posted the check for your tuition already.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I will! I’ll take on whatever work I can. I’ll—”
“The subject is closed, the matter settled.” His father gave him one last, curious look. “Where do you go evenings?”
“I go for a long walk. Dr. Blake advised it. For my health,” Henry lied, feeling, for once, power in the secrecy of his other life.
His father had continued squinting at him for only a moment more. “Well,” he said, returning to his paper, “I suppose Dr. Blake knows best.”
It had been a stupid mistake that trapped them.
Louis had written Henry a letter. A beautiful letter. Henry could almost recite it; he’d read it that many times. He could barely stand to be parted from it, and so he transferred it from pocket to pocket, always keeping it on his person so that he could read it whenever he wanted. But one night, he’d been too tired and had forgotten it in a jacket pocket. The laundress found the note and took it to Henry’s father.
Henry got a sick feeling in his stomach as he remembered being summoned to the parlor, their butler, Joseph, closing the doors behind Henry. It was the only time his father’s calm had ever threatened to become something else, something violent.
“Do you recognize this?” his father asked, holding up the offending love letter. “What is this filth?”
Henry’s fear robbed him of any answer.
“Has this”—his father’s mouth struggled to form the word—“boy… compromised you in some way?”
Louis had made him laugh. Louis had kissed him. Loved him. There had been no compromise in any of that.
“Have you thought that he might blackmail our family, tarnish our good name, in pursuit of money?” his father continued. “Do you assume it is only homely heiresses who may fall prey to fortune hunters?”
Henry wanted to tell his father that Louis was kind and good, romantic and gentle. What they shared was real. But telling his father such a thing was impossible. His disapproval was so powerful it paralyzed Henry, strangled him in shame.
He’d never felt like more of a coward.
“You will not be returning to Exeter,” his father announced.
“I won’t?” Even in his fear, new hope surged in Henry. He could stay here. With Louis.