#caudebec

“Come in,” ordered Hornblower, crossing the room to the table and pouring himself another glass of wine. “You can sit down by the fire.” He drained the glass and turned around to where William now sat in the armchair. He could only imagine how he must appear to the shade of his dearest friend: his jacket gone, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his shirt open to the throat. Perhaps it was right that William should see him in such dishevelment; it was more fitting for a coward and a sinner such as he to be so unkempt, instead of the image of the polished and refined lord he worked so hard to present to the world.

“Sir?” asked William, and the restraint Hornblower had built up so carefully for weeks shattered at last.

“Never call me that,” he snapped, rounding on William with such fury that the man actually shrank back against his chair. “He called me that, not you.” It took Hornblower’s addled mind a moment to realise that William’s eyes were wide with fear, and the sight of the poor creature huddled before him was enough to douse the anger that burned in Hornblower. “William,” he said, overcome with guilt, “Oh, forgive me, William, I forget myself.” He knelt before William and took William’s rough, scarred hands into his own.

William was trembling but he swallowed hard and looked Hornblower in the eye. “Tell me, my lord,” he said quietly. “Tell me what it was you wished to say to me.”

Hornblower caressed William’s hands for a long moment, gathering what little strength he could from the touch of his friend, before rising to his feet and turning his back on William. He rested a hand on the chimneypiece, the stone strong and reassuring, and drew a last, deep breath.

“When the Court of Inquiry convenes tomorrow I cannot have you tell them about the letters,” he said. “If the Court asks how you have been regaining knowledge of your former life you must only say that it was through conversation with me. Are we clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” said William, then: “Can you tell me why?”

Hornblower stared into the crackling fire for a moment, the flicker of the flames across the wood soothing in their movement. “I can,” he said carefully, “But if I tell you it may change everything. Those letters —” The fire popped and spat in the silence between his words. “They contain things that no decent man would wish to know. Wicked things.” His hand tightened around the chimneypiece as with the grim unreality of a nightmare he felt his heart break with the knowledge of what he knew he must say next. “I am a sinner, William, in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the law. Those letters bear the proof of it.”

“Horatio,” said William gently, and Hornblower’s soul ached to hear his name spoken in the voice of the one he had once loved so dearly. A hand touched his shoulder but he shied from it, unable to look upon William’s familiar face for fear of what he might see there.

“You cannot know what you ask of me,” Hornblower said. “You were an accomplice in my offence.”

William drew a sharp breath. “Sawyer?” he asked, but Hornblower shook his head.

“No. Do not ask this of me, William, not if you wish to carry on as you did before. Take me at my word that you do not want this part of your past to taint your future.”

A hand touched his shoulder again, but this time Hornblower did not shy from it. “Tell me,” said William. “Please. All I ask of you is to tell me the truth, no matter how ugly it may be.” Hornblower turned to him then, and saw behind the carefully neutral expression the unspeakable grief etched into every line of William’s rugged face. “Tell me who I was, sir,” he said, his fingers digging into Hornblower’s shoulder. “It’s all I ask.”

Hornblower held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. “As you wish,” he said, his voice weary and broken. “Sit down.” The letters were in the secret compartment of his trunk where he had left them: he removed the oilskin packet and drew up a chair across from William’s. “I wrote this to you the morning after I received my promotion to commander. You were still laid up in hospital at the time — God only knows what I was thinking in sending it to you.” He found the letter easily enough, the thin paper as soft as silk from years of handling. “Shall I read it to you?”

“Please,” said William.

Hornblower unfolded the letter, trying to ignore the trembling of his hands, and cleared his throat. “‘B,’” he began. “‘I stole away from you while you slept — I daresay you will forgive me after last night.

There are no words that can convey the magnitude of what you have done for me. Curious, how one little thing can cause such a shift — and yet is it not the smallest actions that always lead to the greatest of outcomes? I was adrift, lost at sea, but you found me and drew me homeward again. A strange and uncommon sentiment has come over me, one I scarce thought I would ever know; I place no trust in hope, as well you know, but yet I cannot help but hope you share this sentiment.

Perhaps it is too much to hope — perhaps I am foolish to think we share something greater than comradeship and if that is so, burn this letter and we shall speak no more about it. But if I am right, wait for me at the King’s Wharf two days hence.

Your obedient and most devoted friend,

H.’”

He refolded the letter and slipped it back in its oilskin case. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire. Only when he caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye did Hornblower realise that William was holding his broken watch, tracing the inscription on the inner lid with his finger. His eyes glinted glassy in the flickering light.

“I’m sorry,” said Hornblower. “William, I’m sorry.”

William drew a ragged breath. “Did I love you?” he asked.

Hornblower nodded. “Yes. More than I deserved.” He closed his eyes against the tears that pricked them. “And I — I loved you, in my way. But I fear I was never any good at it.” He cleared his throat, mortally embarrassed, and rose from the chair to stand once more before the fire. “Forgive me, William,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever must you think of me?”

William was silent for a long moment. “I think I must have been a fortunate man to have loved someone like you, my lord,” he said quietly.