Night had long since fallen by the time they departed the factory. Lupe followed them to the door, her gaze darting towards shadows as if she thought someone might be lurking in wait. As they reached the open wall, she offered Thomas the watch again.
Still, he shook his head. "You take care of it for me. Segura." The Spanish word was nowhere near as fluid from his lips, but Lupe clearly understood. She smiled at him broadly and clutched the clock to her chest. Thomas reached out a hand, resting it gently on her head. "I will be back tomorrow with more food." She nodded, his arm shaking with the movement.
"Gracias Tomás," she said quietly, tilting her head slightly to address Vincent, "Y tú, Vicente."
Both men nodded at her, and she turned, scampering back through the building with her prize pressed to her stomach. They watched after her until she had long since disappeared from sight.
"Are we doing the right thing?"
The question was so soft, Vincent almost though he had imagined it. He dragged his gaze from the depths of the building, only to find Thomas already staring at him.
He nodded.
Thomas let out a long breath, raising one hand to rake the curls out of his face. "I know, I agree, but..." he shrugged, a tiny, humourless laugh punctuating the air. "It just feels wrong to leave them here."
Vincent nodded again; he felt it too. "I... If..." He sighed. "There is no alternative. We have nowhere to take them, nothing to help them. Here we know they have work, even if they are mistreated." Unbidden, the image of Abrienda's bruised face leapt into his mind, and he physically flinched away from the memory. "For now, we can help them better from a distance."
There was no reply Thomas could make, so he did not try. Both men took deep, bracing breaths, and then climbed out of the building that had borne so many surprises that day.
It took perhaps another hour for them to return to the boarding house, by the time they'd left the shipping district and found a hired hackney to hail. They travelled in silence mostly, the exhaustion of the day settling into their bones as the adrenaline faded.
The Speckled Egg was alive with activity and music, bright light edging around the curtains and the edges of the doorframe. Vincent was relieved to avoid the pub; he had spoken more that day than he had in years, and did not think he had it in him to engage further with strangers. In strong contrast, the room beyond the door to the Speckled Hen was dark, the proprietor probably next door enjoying a drink, but they pressed through quickly into the narrow stairwell that led up to their rooms.
As he moved, Vincent brushed his hair out of his face, letting out a slight sigh when he realised the whisps were long enough to bother him but not long enough to tuck behind his ear. After the day they'd had, the thought of another task â finding a barber â was draining. It was no surprise then that his foot failed to rise high enough as he attempted the first stair, clipping the edge and sending him sprawling froward.
Pain radiated through his toe, and along his wrist as he caught himself on the banister, but his thoughts focussed on another sensation entirely; the gentle pressure of a hand on his lower back.
"Woah," Thomas' voice was close, cramped together as they were in the narrow stairway. "Easy there."
His fingers didn't move, just resting as they were, and Vincent was overcome by the desire... not to shake them off? For a man who had been repulsed by casual contact for as long as he could remember, feeling uncomfortable with hugs and itchy when others clasped his hands, the simple state of connection was unnerving. But interesting.
Swallowing, he took the step he'd stumbled on, swivelling to look down at Thomas. Rather than remove his hand, the man kept it poised in place, and as Vincent twisted it skirted his hip to settled on his waist. The sensation sent a wave of heat and gooseflesh across his skin, more so when Thomas seemed to find his own balance by tightening his grip slightly.
The gap between them felt far smaller than it was. It was that, rather than the narrow passageway, that squeezed the air from Vincent's lungs, his breath coming fast and shallow as he fought to find a safe place to look. Thomas' eyes were too dark, too bottomless, his lips... Vincent's head jerked down, training his gaze on his shoes.
The hand on his waist tightened a fraction, shifting... stroking?
"Are you alright?" It was their close proximity, the need to whisper, which surely gave his voice the husky tone.
Vincent managed a nod. He licked his lips, searching for something to say...
And then Thomas stepped abruptly away. He laughed, and it echoed uncomfortably in the small space. "Well, I could use a drink!" he announced, tilting his head back towards the pub. Loud, carousing spaces were not places Vincent typically found joy, let alone that day.
He opened his mouth to say as much, to beg an apology and retire to his room, but those were not the words that emerged. "I've a bottle of whiskey in my room."
It was not untrue. Matt had gifted him the bottle when he was accepted to study law, and it had sat on his shelf, gathering dust, since he'd first taken a room at the Speckled Hen. It was the hint of question that surprised them both. It was not simply a statement, there was an underlying... invitation.
Thomas stared up at him from the lower step, searching his face. He couldn't read the expression there, apart from the astonishment in his eyes, and he remember with surprise of his own that he still did not know Vincent that well. He'd always thought him interesting, since the moment he opened the from door of the Humphrey estate and assessed him in silence, and the past few days spent together had given him greater insight into how he thought and acted, but he didn't know him. Thomas didn't know what this invitation meant.
All he did know was that Daniel Vincent Humphrey was a very confusing man.
Eventually, Thomas nodded; he had not lived the life he had to play it safe now.
Like the gears in a clock, Vincent turned almost mechanically, taking the rest of the steps in a steady, even rhythm without another word. Thomas followed slowly, trying to ignore the hand that could still feel the other man's heat. He clenched it into a fist as Vincent admitted them both into his room.
It was exactly what Thomas would have imagined; orderly, simple, and academic. The furniture clearly belonged to the boarding house; each piece was mismatched and worn. There was a bed, a desk, a chair and a bookshelf. The bed was neatly made, and chair set tightly against the desk, and the multitude of papers and books that covered every other surface were arranged deliberately.
As Vincent moved precisely about his room, collecting first the bottle of whiskey and then two glasses from the top shelf of the bookcase, Thomas moved to the window. The shutters were closed, doing their best to keep out the faint chill, and as he nudged one ajar and icy breeze swept through. The gooseflesh was worth it, however, to the smoggy haze that sat across town filled with pinpricks of light.
Behind him, Vincent coughed. The man was out of place, even in his own room, and stood awkwardly in the centre of the space with one half-filled glass of whiskey extended to Thomas. It was far more than a standard pour of the liquor, but Thomas doubted that was on purpose. Nevertheless, he accepted the glass easily, sinking into the chair Vincent indicated as the other man propped himself on the edge of the bed.
As he tilted the cup gently, letting the liquid breath, Vincent took his first sip, his face instantly contorting into a grimace. Thomas couldn't help but laugh, startling them both.
"Not your drink of choice, I take it?" he said, hiding his grin behind the rim of his glass as he took a sip himself. It was strong, but the burn was comforting and pulled some warmth into his chest.
Vincent's lip twitched in a more muted wince. "I... the... It was a gift from Matt. I don't tend to indulge very often."
Thomas didn't doubt it. He glanced around the room again; there were no cards, no dice, no racing slips. No other liquor apart from the bottle they were sampling. No elaborate garments hung out to air or spilling out of the trunk at the end of his bed.
"What do you indulge in, Daniel Vincent Humphrey?" he asked eventually.
Whatever discussion Vincent had been expecting, this was clearly not it. He blinked, frowned, and stuttered. "Uh, horses and books, I suppose."
Thomas was already shaking his head. "That's not nearly a good enough answer to the question." He leant forward, elbows resting on his knees, and even the small movement drew them considerably closer together in the narrow room. "I'm asking after your vices, your secrets."
His eyes didn't stay still, darting around the room. "I... the... my..." With a sigh, he gave up, hand gesturing towards his mouth before flopping back in his lap.
His stutter.
"That' not a vice. It's a difference." Thomas pushed backwards, his arms folding across his chest though he was careful to keep his drink from spilling. His gaze was fixed on the floor between them when he continued. "And contrary to popular belief, differences are good things. They make the world a better place."
He waited for Vincent to try again, but the man just shrugged weakly. "Then what of you? What vices do you nurture?"
Thomas snorted, but let the topic change. He took a small sip of his drink, just letting the whiskey wet his lips, and shrugged. "Pick one and I've got it."
But Vincent didn't laugh. Despite the slight shine the alcohol had put on his eyes, he was still as sharp as ever, and he stared at Thomas as if he might be able to read his very soul. "Is that what you threatened the Duke of Thorne with?"
The question surprised Thomas, but perhaps it shouldn't have. The events of last summer had been deeply tangled with his family, and although David and the Humphreys were relieved to have the matter resolved, he knew they were all curious to know how exactly he'd brought the truce about. The thought of explaining, of revealing...
He struggled to swallow down the lump in his throat. "Do you know you're the only one who doesn't refer to him as 'my father'," he managed to say, before taking a much larger swig of his drink.
Vincent dipped his head. "I noticed how much care you take to avoid acknowledging the relationship."
There was a long pause. Vincent was right; if he could, Thomas would strip himself of every connection to the Thorne family. He felt strangely... seen.
"Thank you."
There was another silence, filled with short sighs and the sipping of drinks.
Then a quiet question: "Did you and the Duke ever get along?"
Thomas took a low breath and thought back to his childhood, summer days frolicking free in paddocks or racing ponies along the riverbanks, only to return to the house and discover his father had returned from town. The memory was tangible; he could almost feel the sting of the leather strap across his shoulders, taste the tang of blood in his mouth, and somewhere, he could almost swear, he could hear a woman weeping.
His raised his chin suddenly, jerking himself out of the memory. "No. We've disappointed each other all my life."
Vincent accepted that easily enough, seemingly not put off by the venom in his tone. "I think there are far worse things than to be disliked by a man such as Edward Thorne."
Thomas felt a smile rise up from the pit of his belly; that was quite a lovely compliment! He took another sip of his whiskey. "What was your father like? Do you remember much of him?"
The edges of Vincent's mouth turned up slightly and the tension of his frown faded from his brow. He shifted on the bed, pushing himself back and folding his legs up onto the mattress. "I was just turned eighteen when he and my mother died. He was..." Vincent was cut off by him own smile, and he dipped his head as if to keep it secret. "He was responsible and protective like Bart, but kind and gentle like Simon. He had a sense of humour too â Matt got every ounce of cheek from him! The two of them together used to drive our mother to her wit's end!"
It was impossible to miss which brother he'd left out. "And you?" Thomas prompted softly, watching Vincent as the man watched his memories. "What did you get from him?"
His smile faded as quickly as it had formed. "His name."
Thomas refused to let him off that easily. There was a pattern here, he was beginning to notice, of Vincent dismissing himself. That would not happen on his watch; he quirked an eyebrow and waited.
"And his career, I suppose," Vincent eventually said with a sigh, brushing his hair out of his face. He was close enough to the wall now that he could lean against the brick, and he did so as he explained. "He was a second son, not intended to inherit the title. His elder brother Vincent," his shook his head as Thomas' brow shot higher, "lived long enough for Father to develop dreams of the law, but not long enough for him to pursue them."
Daniel.
Vincent.
Humphrey.
Not one of the names came without the weight of duty and expectation. Thomas knew well enough what that was like. He had been trying to live down his name for as long as Vincent had been trying to live up to his. He'd run from the name Thorne for as long as he'd been able, doing and saying things his father wouldn't approve of sometimes solely for the sake of his disapproval. He had no advice to offer, no words of encouragement, no witticisms to drag them out of this serious conversation...
He cleared his throat. "We had an unexpected day, didn't we?"
Vincent blinked hurriedly as he took in the abrupt topic change, eventually issuing a stilted nod.
"You didn't suspect we would stumble across a factory filled with angry Spanish women and discover the mother of the baby you found had run off with her to protect her from her English father?" Thomas shook his head, sighing heavily. "And here I thought you were the genius supposed to conceive every possible scenario!"
He received a flat look and was wholly ignored. "Did you notice they never asked for Isabela to be returned to them?" he said instead, considering the liquid in his cup. "They asked if she was well, or if we'd encountered Gabriela, but never when we would reunite them with the babe."
Thomas made a noise; he hadn't noticed. But it was odd. "They are clearly not heartless. They defended Lupe from us as if she were daughter to all of them." His brow twitched again. "Perhaps they think one of the rich Lord Humphreys will take her in â no reason to risk that by asking for her return."
This time Vincent didn't seem to pick up on the joke, his frown remaining in place. "Perhaps."
His seriousness was catching, and Thomas felt his own concern bubble up. "Do you think we did the right thing?" The question tumbled out before he could stop it, and he was instantly repulsed by the way it sounded; so unsure, so... vulnerable. He coughed quickly and clarified. "Leaving them at the factory, I mean."
The concern on Vincent's face drifted to his eyes. "I don't know."
"I worry for them."
"Me too."
Although it had been he who'd begun the dour discussion of the women's safety, Thomas was also the one to pull them both out of it. He took a quick, deep breath, his posture straightening, and with the normal twinkle in his eye returned, he leaned forward in his chair to clap Vincent on the knee. "Well, no point in worrying over it. We will find Gabriela and return her daughter to her, and you can go back to living your father's life."
Vincent winced first at the slap on his leg, and then again at the jibe. Just when he thought he and Thomas were getting along, perhaps even becoming friends, the man had to go and...
He missed Thomas' own wince as the words slipped out. He kept talking, quickly and loudly, in the hopes he could distract Vincent.
"Maybe I'll take over the factory once we find out who's in charge of it. I'm sure I could run it better, and I've been looking for something to do with my time. Maybe Lupe could be my foreman â she did admirably at keeping the women at bay today, and I'm sure she'll grow up to be something fierce. Abrienda however... If she keeps the pole, she can be my security, I..."
Whatever else he said was lost on Vincent. The admiration in his tone for Lupe brought back the memory of Thomas tucking the pocket watch into her grasp, of him patting her head, of him smiling at her...
It was clearly his turn to say something he'd regret: "Do you have designs on Lupe?"
The smile of Thomas' face turned brittle. He righted his posture, his grip on his glass tightening. "You really do have a low opinion of me, don't you?"
It was the change in his eyes that swelled the most guilt in Vincent's chest; the twinkle in them almost instantly extinguished. "I didn't think you did!" he said quickly, free hand rubbing anxiously along the sudden cool patch on the side of his knee. "I'm often wrong about these things though, and I thought it best to confirm with you directly. And my opinion is not... I mean, it grows... I mean-"
He took a hurried sip of his drink, to stop himself talking more than anything.
Thomas' smile returned slowly, and he glanced down at the drink in his hand. He wished Vincent hadn't felt the need to ask, but he could understand. He leant forward then, elbows resting on his knees as he locked eyes with Vincent.
"Shall we make a deal, then?" He quirked his brow slightly, happy to see some of Vincent's tension leave him. "You promise to stop asking if I intend to compromise every woman we encounter, and I promise to tell you if I ever do."
He expected the proposal would garner nothing less than Vincent's full consideration, and was rewarded with a minute of contemplative silence followed by a jerky nod. He smiled at that, reclining back in the armchair and swirling his drink gently.
The silence that stretched was a comfortable one. For Thomas at least. Vincent took another sip of his drink, seemingly for the sake of having something to do, and Thomas wondered what thoughts were racing through the man's head now. Was he still thinking of Lupe? Thomas's hand froze in place, whiskey threatening to slosh out of the glass; did he think of her for himself?
Much like Vincent, he was overcome by the urge to ask, but he credited himself to have a bit more tact.
"What of you?" he said slowly, eyes half-mast and fixed on his drink. From that angle, he could just see Vincent's face in his peripheries. "Now that your schooling is finally completed is it time to direct your attention to the marriage mart?"
He uttered neither sudden agreeance nor sudden denial. In true Vincent fashion, he titled his head to the side and considered the question with a frown. After a long moment, he nodded, and took another long sip of his drink.
Thomas mirrored the gesture. "You don't seem particularly thrilled at the prospect."
Vincent's hand drifted to his mouth as he smothered a slight hiccup. "It's what's done."
Thomas tried his best to ignore the swirl of emotion in his stomach. He thought he kept an admirably blasé tone when he said, "Just because it's what's done doesn't mean it's what you should do."
Unfortunately, Vincent didn't hear his admirably even sentence. He hiccupped again, and Thomas noticed his now decidedly pink cheeks, and the way he swayed slightly where he sat. Poor Vincent Humphrey, who rarely indulged, was drunk.
"Maybe a blue-stocking," he was murmuring, more to himself than Thomas â he was completely unaware that Thomas had spoken again. "If she's her own academic interests, she shan't mind me getting lost in my work." He raised his chin, blurred vision finding the other man in the room. "I think I could quite like an intelligent wife. We'd have much to discuss." This was said quite seriously.
"You're not supposed to 'discuss' things with a wife, Vincent," he replied with a laugh.
Vincent's head tilted almost violently to the side. "A husband doesn't talk to his wife?"
He had him there. Even in his cups, Vincent had a keen mind. "Well, no you're right. I suppose they do. But there's more to it than that!" Thomas snorted. "Or so I hear..."
As usual, Vincent just blinked. "Like what?"
"Like... kisses and tender moments, raising a family," he hesitated only to swallow, "making a family." He couldn't explain his own awkwardness; he'd had much more detailed conversations with men he was much less acquainted with. Perhaps that was the problem.
Vincent didn't seem to notice, his head shaking violently from side to side. "No, no, no. My wife and I shall discuss. There'll be no time for all... that."
Thomas had more questions on the tip of his tongue, questions that began in the pit of his belly and rose up to make the tips of his ears burn. But he also had the slight impression that he was taking advantage.
He pushed himself to his feet, setting his half-empty glass on Vincent's desk. "Well, that's between you and the lucky lady. Now come on, time for you to retire for the evening." He held out a hand, intending on helping the wobbly man to his feet so that he could rearrange properly into bed.
Vincent ignored his outstretched limb, his eyebrow wiggling. "I'm already retired. You're in my room."
"I learn more about you by the day. If I want you to speak quickly, I only have to infuriate you. If I want you to mock me, I only have to get you sauced!"
Vincent frowned at him. "I'm inebriated?"
"I'm afraid so, my friend." He held out his hand again, this time successfully taking Vincent's in his and pulling him to his feet.
"Friend..." he repeated, almost to himself. Thomas was startled by the tenderness of the word, and the slight surprise that tinged it. Vincent looked up suddenly, stepping in closer to him without releasing his hand. There they stood, almost nose to nose, brown eyes staring into black. When Vincent exhaled, Thomas could feel it on his lips, a warm puff of air that carried the scent of whiskey and parchment.
"I have to tell you something," his friend continued.
Thomas swallowed heavily. This was a bad idea. Whatever was about to happen was a very bad idea. Vincent was drunk, he wasn't in his right mind. If he was, he'd be thinking with his usual adorable ruffle in the middle of his brow, or shaking his head at Thomas' antics. He wouldn't be standing this close and he wouldn't be still holding his hand.
"I think," Vincent said slowly, wavered bodily towards Thomas and then righting himself with some difficulty. His grip on Thomas' hand only tightened. "I think I'm going to be sick."
AsThomas' heart began the process of slowing back to its normal rhythm, hethought he might be too.
~~
Hello Lovely Readers!
This chapter is an example of an 'oops'! This conversation over whiskey was supposed to be a 'lil blip - 1000 words max to show the friendship developing between Vincent and Thomas. Now it's an entire chapter - they just both had so much to say! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that you feel like you know more about both Vincent and Thomas now! Let me know in the comments or pop a 'lil vote on the chapter!
xx Flo