gn_chevalier | News: Bonds of Earth

Bonds of Earth, a historical homoerotic romance, is due to be published by Dreamspinner Press in 2012.

Summary

In 1918, Michael McCready returned from the war with only one goal: to lose himself in the mindless pursuit of pleasure. Once a promising young medical student, his dreams lie buried along with the broken bodies of the men he could not save. Forced to leave New York to preserve the one relationship he still values, he takes a position as a gardener on a country estate, where he soon finds that the house's caretakers, along with their granddaughter Sarah, have their own secrets and sorrows. While his friendship with Sarah grows as they work together to revive the estate's neglected gardens, his hostility toward the reclusive lord of the manor increases as he dredges up reminders of the past that Michael is so desperate to forget.

John Seward's once beautiful body has been broken by the war, along with his will to recover. Haunted by his memories, only Sarah can still reach him through their shared love of painting. It takes a crisis within this makeshift family to convince Seward to agree to pursue a radical course of treatment. As Seward's health and outlook improve under Michael's care and animosity yields to understanding, the two find their battle of wills turning into something entirely different, something Michael is reluctant to pursue. Can two men scarred by war and loss find hope and healing in one another?

A short excerpt

Stuyvesant was exactly what Michael had been expecting, which was to say not very much at all. There was one main street that housed a greengrocer’s, a milliner’s and a general store, a couple of side streets with tall oaks lining the dirt roads, and exactly three motorcars, one of which had been assigned to pick him up from the station.

Thomas Abbott may have been an excellent cart driver back in the day, but he obviously had little understanding of how motorcars worked. Michael thought about offering to take the wheel, but doubted it would be well received. The old man had taken one long disdainful look at Michael upon first meeting him, then gruffly introduced himself. His hands were as long and bony as the rest of him, and he had the air of someone who was used to looking down his hooked nose at the rest of the world, in the way that some household servants had. Michael wasn’t yet sure if he hated Irishmen or merely strangers in general.

“It’s not a very big town,” Michael observed as the shops soon gave way to farmers’ fields and the wide lawns of fine homes.

“It suits us,” Abbott said shortly. “But don’t worry; you won’t be seeing much of it.”

Michael bit back the reply that this would not exactly be a hardship; no point in aggravating the old coot. “Lots of work to be done around the place, is there?” he asked instead.

Abbott cut his eyes at him. “Madam wants the gardens restored to the way they once were. Can’t imagine why.” As soon as the words were spoken, he pressed his lips together as though he’d revealed an intimate family secret to the milkman.

Michael said nothing to this, because there was nothing to say. The reason for the job didn’t much matter to him; he had it now, and had to make the best of it, like it or not. And for all that he’d hated working with Paddy, he had to admit he’d enjoyed working in the dirt as a child, making things grow with his own hands. He’d bought a couple of books on garden design and maintenance before leaving the city; they sat in the bottom of his pack, ready to be taken out and studied when he had a few spare moments. He hadn’t done this kind of work in over a decade, and then it had been under Paddy’s direction, but there was no chance he was going to present himself as an ignorant Mick to anyone.

He made no more attempts to engage Abbott in conversation, and Abbott seemed content with this arrangement, so they passed the rest of the bumpy, gut-churning journey in silence. Even when the old bastard nearly drove them off the road, Michael held his tongue. He had to admit it would be the supreme irony if he met his fate here in this peaceful place, among the tall, stately trees and the birds bursting into song above them. For one who now associated death with blasted, barren landscapes and battered bodies that were more carcass than man, it seemed impossible to believe that anyone ever died here.

Eventually Abbott wrestled the car up a long, winding drive that led them to a sprawling two-and-a-half storey monstrosity surrounded by trees and gently sloped grounds. Michael took in the state of the landscape as they drove past. Beds that looked as though they hadn’t been tended in several years ringed the house, and an assortment of ornamental shrubbery on the front lawn was beginning to grow wild, odd limbs poking up from the otherwise round or oval shapes. Michael gasped as the sight revived a memory that slammed into him without warning, stealing his breath.

The merciless September rain beats down on them as he and Eddie carry the dead man to the pile of bodies outside the Casualty Clearing Station. Peeling back the tarp someone has thrown over it to keep off the worst of the weather, Michael reveals a pale white arm poking out from the otherwise neat mound.

Laying down the stretcher, he grasps the hand and tries to tuck it back in amongst the bodies, but it won’t stay. Rigor has set in, and it keeps popping out again. It’s almost comical, a routine for a vaudeville performer in hell.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Eddie’s exasperated voice cuts through his thoughts, and Michael realizes he’s been laughing like a madman.

“Nothing,” Michael gasps, still trying to catch his breath.

“Then help me lift him, will you?” Eddie orders, hefting the feet of their latest charge. “This rain is making him weigh a God-damned ton.”

Michael bends down, hooking his hands under the armpits of the body, and they swing him up onto the pile, then cover the remains as best they can with the tarp. When he looks back as they walk away, the arm is still visible, its pale hand waving goodbye.

The car jerked to a stop in front of a wide triple-bayed garage that had doubtless been a stable not so long ago. Abbott shut off the engine, then closed his eyes briefly as though sending up a silent prayer of thanks.

“Well, get your things and let’s get you settled,” he muttered, though his tone was slightly less cold than it had been at the start.