“That sounds lovely,” Beckett said, smiling at him. “I’ve only been to the seaside once or twice, and then only on Long Island, where my father had friends.”
Noah gaped at him. “Shocking, sir! Positively shocking. One should spend as much time by the sea as possible. Fresh, ocean air and sunshine are good for the soul.”
And the smoke and tight spaces of cities were restrictive nightmares sometimes. The thought came hard on the heels of Noah’s elated feelings about the sea and his boyhood. He didn’t hate cities, but when things got bad within him, they somehow made things worse. And yet, anyone who had ever tried to “cure” him—not that there was anything to cure—had always forced him to stay in confined places where he could be watched. Like asylums.
“Are you quite alright, Noah?” Beckett asked, shaking Noah out of his thoughts.
He hadn’t realized he’d been silent, and he wasn’t certain how long he’d been so.
He put on a smile and said as charmingly as possible, “Yes, more than alright. I was just thinking of my boyhood by the sea. But why dwell on the past when we have the future ahead of us? You have so generously offered me a home from which to plan my efforts to win Marcus back, so I should be happy. And we have this marvelous city to explore.”
“We do,” Beckett said, his smile returning. “If you will look out the window at present, we are approaching Union Square on the right. There was a rally of anarchists there just last night that my friends and I ended up involved in, though none of us are anarchists.”
Noah took a look at the quaint park, then settled back in his seat and listened to Beckett tell the tale of Alonzo Russo, one of the co-owners of The Slippery Slope, and his beau, Ricky DeMarco, and how Ricky had fallen in with a group of anarchists.
It was a thrilling tale, one worthy of a penny dreadful. Noah had half a mind to write the story himself. He’d written down some of his adventures—or, at least, his imagined adventures—before, and the story Beckett told him would sell fantastically well.
Or perhaps it was simply the way Beckett told it. The man had an expressive face and a pleasing voice. Noah liked him immensely, and he felt as though he could listen to the man indefinitely. Beckett seemed more than happy to chatter on as well. His love of his city was clear, and he pointed out a great many things through the windows as they passed them. None was as fascinating as Beckett himself, though.
And yet, underneath all of the fondness and the relief at finding a friend, the whispers in Noah’s head told him not to become too attached. People always left him in the end. Even men who professed to like him at first—or to love him, like Marcus had—became fed up with him eventually and left. He should not pin so many hopes on Beckett. It was only a matter of time before something happened or his emotions got the better of him and Beckett would turn on him, calling him too much, or worse, mad.
“Do long carriage drives upset you?” Beckett asked all of a sudden as they made a turn halfway along Central Park and headed down a residential street of beautiful, clearly expensive buildings.
Noah blinked away his melancholy thoughts and smiled again. “I beg your pardon?”
Beckett looked relieved as he said, “You’d gone over all…squidgey. I thought perhaps the motion of the carriage had made you sick.”
Noah laughed loudly. “What sort of a word is ‘squidgey’?”
Beckett laughed with him. “One I have just made up, apparently,” he said. “I think I like it, though.”
“I like it as well,” Noah said. “And no, I do not feel squidgey. I was just…thinking.”
“Well, don’t think too hard, because we’re here.”
The carriage stopped, almost as if Beckett’s words had commanded it, and Beckett reached for the carriage door.
They alighted in front of a handsome building on a clean street. Noah could tell at a glance that they’d crossed over into the sort of neighborhood where New York’s finest lived. It reminded him a bit of Mayfair, in feeling, not in style. As much as he’d enjoyed the sense of energy and excitement of the Bowery, the relative calm and stateliness of this new place where he found himself was rather pleasing.
“This is your home?” he asked, placing a hand on his hat and glancing up at the building’s three stories.
“It is,” Beckett admitted with a bashful laugh. “My father has made certain I live comfortably.” He headed up the stairs to the door, which was opened right away by a middle-aged man in a smart suit.
“I’ll say,” Noah laughed, following Beckett into the house.
“Welcome home, Mr. Smith,” the butler—that was what the man had to be—greeted Beckett, then looked questioningly at Noah.
“Gardener, this is a new friend of mine, Mr. Noah Cheevers, from London,” Beckett said, removing his hat and handing it to the man. “He will be staying with us for a time, so if you would kindly take his bag to one of the guestrooms and see that he is provided with what he needs.”
“Yes, sir.” Gardener bowed, then offered to take Noah’s bag. Noah handed it over with a smile as Gardener went on with, “Sir, your father and sister are here to see you.”
“Oh?” Beckett blinked, then sucked in a breath. “Damn. Father did send a note he was coming by today. I forgot. Have they been here long?”
“No, sir. Only ten minutes or so,” Gardener said.
“Good,” Beckett breathed a sigh of relief, then walked deeper into the house, gesturing for Noah to follow him. “I’ll introduce you.”
Noah loved every second of the exchange between Beckett and his butler. It caused him to rethink his impression of his new friend entirely. Beckett was far finer than he’d imagined, based on where he’d met him and what he’d been doing at the time. Everything around Noah, from the butler to the excellent furnishings of the townhouse, to the scent of lemons and polish that permeated the air around him, made him feel like he’d stepped inside of another story entirely. And Beckett was his friend.