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    After the Storm
    After the Storm
    After the Storm
    Ebook178 pages3 hours

    After the Storm

    By Summer Devon

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    About this ebook

    Heartbroken after the death of his eccentric lover, Jenks is left to care for Mutt's beloved pets on a lovely but isolated estate. With only the animals for company and rejected years earlier by his family when he left school to be with his lover, Jenks worries he's fading from the world—until one misty morning when he discovers a half-drowned man on the bank of the river. And not just any man, but one who may have been the victim of an attempted murder.

    James Griffin is respectable and married…and has buried his true passion his entire life. Jenks's gentle manner and keen mind stir in him the sort of longing he wishes he had for his wife. The same frustrated wife he now wonders may have plotted his demise. His memories clouded, Griffin knows he must discover his attacker's identity, resolve matters in his unhappy marriage…and confront the desire he feels for the shy but tenacious Jenks. 


    Together, they return to London to learn the truth of Griffin's near murder. The police believe the incident nothing more than an accident, leaving Griffin and Jenks to find their way through a tangle of conflicting desires and ambitions to hunt the truth on their own. 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSummer Devon
    Release dateApr 18, 2019
    ISBN9781386841531
    After the Storm
    Author

    Summer Devon

    About the Author Summer Devon is the alter ego of Kate Rothwell who also writes under her own name.  Summer writes m/m books of all sorts. Many of her titles are co-written with Bonnie Dee For more information about Summer/Kate, go to http://katerothwell.com or http://summerdevon.com.  Summer can also be found at https://www.facebook.com/S.DevonAuthor

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      Book preview

      After the Storm - Summer Devon

      Chapter One

      1888 , England

      THE SUN HAD BARELY touched the horizon when Jenks set out in the rowboat. The dregs of the storm still lingered, so there was no early morning calm, yet he relished his fight against a strong breeze.

      He ended his row as he did most mornings, pushing against the tide rather than allowing it to carry him and his small boat away. The river stretched into marshland not far from the estate. And after that, the sea and France, a place he’d once dreamed of visiting. Now the very thought brought on dreary fear. He looked over his shoulder to mark his way back to Mutt’s estate.

      No, not Mutt’s. He must stop thinking of all of it—the boat, the house, himself—as Mutt’s. Mr. Roland Muttingsly, younger brother of Mutt, now owned the land and all its buildings. And Jenks was alone.

      Jenks changed his grip on the wood, squeezed his fingers, and strained harder.

      Less than a thousand feet from the dock, something flew into his eye. Cursing, he yanked the oars into the boat so the handles rested across his lap. His eye watered, and he blinked until he could see again.

      If he’d kept sweeping along, caught in the rhythm and pleasure of the row, Jenks would have missed the shape in the underbrush by the side of the river. That was his first thought as he stared at the body. An insect or bit of dirt changed his whole world from one second to the next.

      He didn’t for an instant believe the dark object was only some garbage or a pile of clothes. That lump by the river was a person. With the occasional stop to rub at his stinging eye, he maneuvered toward the body, but hesitated before getting too close. Should he leave it in place for the authorities?

      But then the form moved. Not just the wind ruffling cloth or hair—that movement came from under the dark cloth. He prayed aloud. Please don’t let that be a river rat grabbing breakfast from a corpse.

      Jenks came close enough to see that it was a man, a bit older than his own twenty-two years, dressed in what Mutt had disdainfully called city garb, though the man didn’t wear a bowler hat or clutch an umbrella. That thought made Jenks give a strange laugh. The man’s collar hung loose. He lay in the mud among tall weeds, wet, and his face was shockingly pale, but his skin was not the ashen hue of death.

      When Jenks leaned out of the boat and shook the leg that trailed in the water, the man stirred and groaned.

      Hallo? Sir? How the devil did you end up here? Jenks demanded, but the man didn’t answer.

      They were miles outside London. Had a banking clerk exited a train during a storm and tossed himself into the Thames? Or maybe he’d been robbed and thrown into the river and had been saved at the edge of the water when a tree root snagged him.

      Jenks took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his trousers. When he climbed out of the boat, he sank up to his knees in the sandy mud.

      When Jenks bent over the man, ready to pull him up, the man’s eyes fluttered opened. He opened his mouth, started to speak, and was violently sick across Jenks’s front.

      Of course, feel free. Jenks gave himself a fast rinse off before he gathered the man up. You’ve probably swallowed half the river and gotten a good smash on the head. Naturally you’d cast it all up onto me.

      He had nursed Mutt through illness, so had grown less appalled by bodily fluids. Just because I don’t run shrieking from puke doesn’t mean I enjoy it, though, old chap, he informed the man, whose eyes were open but didn’t seem to be focused. Jenks’s arms were strong, so he easily cradled the man like a large baby as he sloshed back to the boat.

      Sorry, the man said. I-I apologize but... Oh, no. He turned away and managed to get most of the river water and stomach contents into the river this time.

      No need to apologize, Jenks said cheerfully as he settled the man onto the bottom of the boat. There was water sloshing around down there, but the damp, near-drowned fellow wouldn’t mind that. And no need to risk having a woozy victim fall out of the boat.

      Jenks hauled himself back in with a grunt and a curse. He’d laid the stranger on top of his shoes and socks. His rather nice shoes, the very last gift from Mutt. He set off again.

      By the time he’d tied up at the dock, the stranger had shuffled into a sitting position.

      Where am I? He squinted up at Jenks. Who are you?

      I’m Jenks, and this is Finchley House.

      The stranger gaped at him. Where?

      We’re just outside a hamlet you’ve never heard of. Close to Erith or Rainham. Essex, he added when the stranger still stared.

      I-I was in London. The stranger stared at the boathouse with its glossy coat of white paint and green door. How could I have possibly come so far?

      I wouldn’t know. Jenks crouched on the dock. Do you require help getting out?

      I don’t think so. The man gingerly touched the back of his head. Hurts. After more examination with tentative fingers, he winced. I must have hit my head. But...how?

      Jenks jumped back into the boat. The man started and groaned as it rocked. I’m just fetching my togs, Jenks said. Come along. We’ll see about getting you fresh clothes and shipped back home.

      But I don’t understand. Who are you again? He was still dazed.

      I’m Jenks. Can you recall how you hit your head?

      The man shook his head, then touched the sore spot, his pale face twisted in pain. No. No, I walked. But that was in London. I had... His face went even whiter, and the pain seemed etched deeper.

      Jenks waited, but the stranger had nothing to add, so Jenks prodded for more information. London? If you truly went into the river there, then the tide and rough waters and wind must have carried you. Did you have an accident? Fall from your boat?

      No boat. The man grabbed the post of the dock and began to haul himself out of the rowboat. Jenks rose to help pull him onto the dock. And a good thing he did too, for the man stumbled and would have gone back into the water.

      You probably should have a lie down. Should I summon a doctor? Jenks hoped he’d say no. The disturbance would annoy Roland.

      The stranger seemed alarmed at the offer. Please, no doctor is necessary.

      All right. Rest, and then we’ll find a way to get you back to where you belong.

      Yes. Of course.

      What is your name?

      The bewildered look remained on the stranger’s face. He didn’t speak, and for a moment, Jenks wondered how he’d help a man who was so dazed as to forget his own name. The stranger swallowed and answered, Griffin. James Griffin.

      I’d say how do you do, but I can see you’re not well, Mr. Griffin. Let us go up this hill, hardly steep, and then you can rest.

      He coaxed him, falling into the habit of amiable chatter, as he’d done all those months with a peevish and sick Mutt.

      The taller grass near the river made Griffin stumble, and the bright sunlight seemed to be annoying him They made their way slowly toward the sprawling monstrosity that squatted at the top of the rise. The lawn tickled Jenks’s bare feet, so he stopped and put his socks and shoes on.

      Nearly there, he said and steered Griffin on. The near-drowned man squished with each step. He paused every few seconds to squint around himself. Perhaps he’d gotten drunk before falling into the river and now suffered from the after-effects of too much alcohol? So many intriguing questions. They walked slowly enough Jenks could watch the sodden figure next to him.

      Life at Finchley House had been dull for some time, and the mystery of Mr. Griffin presented entertainment.

      Griffin’s steps faltered. Is that real?

      He gaped at the ornate designs plastered and carved and painted onto gables, porticos, and turrets. The green, scarlet, and yellow house seemed created in a fairy tale. Jenks barely noticed the silliness of Mutt’s creation anymore.

      Yes, Jenks said. Finchley House.

      But when Griffin aimed straight for the French doors overlooking the stretch of lawn and elegant rose garden, Jenks caught his arm and gave a small tug to direct him to a side path. We’ll go to the servants’ entrance.

      Griffin slowed and examined him with bloodshot brown eyes. You’re a servant, Mr. Jenks?

      Jenks shrugged. No. I don’t think so. He was in a way, in service to a dog and some birds.

      Griffin frowned but must have been too polite to ask how a person couldn’t know his own status. He only said, I’m so wet and dirty.

      As they drew nearer to the house, Jenks heard voices. He’d been about to steer them to the kitchen, but realized that would be a mistake. He’d have to subject Griffin to the clamor of Hapless and Mrs. E and the ladies, but that would be better than interrupting the staff, who’d be in the midst of preparing Roland’s breakfast. We’ll just go to a house beyond the stables, shall we? It’s my, er, office.

      They backtracked to the garden and then the back garden toward the stables. They walked past the ornate brick henhouse and the wrought-iron caged run that were far too pretty and silly for the chickens that squatted on the house’s roof and gables, but Mr. Griffin only gave the structure a glance.

      Jenks wondered if the groom had been by to give the ladies water already. In honor of the previous owner, the remaining servants treated all of Mutt’s pets well—including Jenks, he supposed.

      Inside the cottage, Hapless barked, and Mrs. E scolded, "Bad dog, bad dog."

      Who is shouting? Mr. Griffin came to a stop and ran a hand over his damp and muddied dark hair. He must have thought he was about to enter a madhouse with an inmate who screamed bad dog over and over in a nasal tone.

      Not who. What. That’s a parrot—an African gray.

      They entered through the front door into the sunny front room. Hapless raced to greet them. She caught the scent of the stranger and immediately squatted.

      Oh, no, no, Jenks scolded, but quietly. Hapless came by her name honestly. He opened the door and pushed her out before she made much of a puddle.

      She did her business, then came back in almost at once. She hated being away from him almost as much as she hated strangers. After she came back in, Jenks pulled the Holland cloth off the large sofa and draped it on one of the chairs. That would do for his stranger. He himself had slept on it more than once.

      Mr. Griffin stood in the middle of the room, staring at the huge painting over the sofa. It depicted Hapless and Mrs. E—and the late Mr. E, a macaw—at about four times their real size. The two birds were posed as if they were nobility or a famous statesman and his wife, with Hapless taking the role of child. The ornate carved-wood-and-gilt frame made the picture even more ridiculous.

      The marble sculpture of Mrs. E, her wings stretched and about to take flight, stood on a pedestal in the corner by the fireplace. It had been liberally decorated by Mrs. E herself. The maids came through at least twice a week—as per Mutt’s final set of instructions—but it was difficult to keep the statue clean when it was the parrot’s favorite perch.

      If you would care to stretch out, I’m afraid the velvet sofa is your only choice, but it is quite large and comfortable.

      Ah, said Mr. Griffin. I shouldn’t like to get the velvet wet, though.

      Jenks examined his guest. Griffin wasn’t as tall or thin as Jenks, but the spare clothes might work.

      I have some dry things here you can borrow. He went into the back room of the two-room building, and Mrs. E greeted him with a few plaintive comments, then threw in a, "Who’s the best of girls? Who’s the best? Girls? Best?"

      You are, my love. Jenks gave the proper ritual answer. If he hadn’t answered the way Mrs. E preferred, she would have continued squawking. He scratched her neck feathers and crooned at her. She crooned back, a muddled version of her favorite song, Come Into the Garden, Maud.

      Mutt had loved these blessed animals more than he loved Jenks, but Jenks’s jealous resentment never extended to the animals themselves. They provided him with affection and companionship during a low tide of his life. And he felt sorry for them. They seemed to miss Mutt perhaps even more than he did. He and

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