A second chance at love for two men who fought together in the trenches of WWI. Class, ideals and prejudice drove them apart, but now, in the safety of peacetime, an illicit gay relationship has its own joys and risks.
1916, Northern France. Corporal Charlie Villiers breaks the monotony of the trenches by having sex with whoever is willing, including the posh Lieutenant Ned Pinsent. Except their stolen moments are becoming more than just a distraction — Ned actually listens when Charlie talks. But can Charlie share how going over the top is crushing his soul with the golden boy officer?
1923, London. Ned Pinsent’s reward for surviving the Great War is life as a scandalous Bright Young Thing — no cares, no responsibilities and no consequences. His carefully curated life of pleasure is upended when an errand brings him face to face with Charlie Villiers, his ex-lover from the trenches — the man whose life Ned saved and whose trust Ned betrayed.
From the roaring twenties to the world wars and beyond, Charlie and Ned will learn to fight for each other and their love.
Always love discovering new-to-me authors but in the case of These Old Lies by Larrie Barton, it truly is a new author as this is their first release. And what a way to jump into the publishing world! There is just not enough WW1/post-war era stories in the LGBTQ genre for my liking so I tend to 1-click them whenever one crosses my eye. Even though it's only a couple of months I can't recall how These Old Lies caught my attention but I am so glad it did.
These Old Lies is the story of Corporal Charlie Villiers and Lieutenant Ned Pinsent told through varied points in their journey: in the trenches, post-war/early 1920s, early 1930s, and WW2, and a final chapter farther into the future(don't want to spoil anything so that's all you'll get on the future). Their chemistry is obvious and real, fiery and subtle, their behavior ranging from barely speaking to BFFs, from their stolen moments of lust to their growing pull of love, it is all encompassing and you can't help but smile while witnessing it.
The supporting cast, from the trenches to homelife, every character is needed and not just page filler. They add to the story but they also add to the strengths and fears of Charlie and Ned.
Once again, These Old Lies is an amazing story that respects the era in multiple areas. Larrie Barton is definitely going on my "Author-To-Watch" list. Whether you like historicals or just good storytelling in general, this is certainly a winning gem.
Blogger Note: With this being the author's first published work, yes there are grammatical errors that should have been caught in editing BUT they are not enough to change the flow of the story. I'll admit I tend to mentally correct them without thinking about it nor feel a need to be over critical of it either. Also some are not editing errors but slang of the time and while we may not recognize them that doesn't mean they were missed in editing. I saw a few comments regarding the multiple times the men, mentally and/or verbally, brought up their fears of discovery so remember, this is a historical setting where being LGBT was not only considered morally wrong but was in fact illegal and Charlie and Ned's fears are real and warranted. If the author had written it by today's standards I would have been disappointed and not enjoyed the story nearly as much.
1 Resurrecting Ghosts
London, May 1923 / Ned
Ned looked at his watch and tried to calculate how much of his afternoon he would lose to Hugh’s latest escapade. In principle, this should have been a simple errand before dinner, but life experience had taught Ned that few things were simple when Hugh was involved.
“Remind me again why I am accompanying you to this hat shop?” Ned turned to the blond-haired dreamer beside him in the motor.
Ned had never met another man with such perfect bow lips, skin such a creamy colour of porcelain, or hair such a golden halo of beauty.
“Because I’m going to let you fuck me after dinner,” Hugh responded, completely nonplussed by Ned’s question or the underlying sarcasm.
Ned glanced instinctively up at the driver even though he knew the screen prevented him from overhearing their conversation. There was no point in telling Hugh to be more discreet or explaining the risks of a gross indecency charge. Hugh’s strident refusal to pretend to be something that made society more comfortable was what spurred Ned to buy him a cocktail at Soho nightclub in the first place.
Hugh slid an arm around Ned and stretched out over the sedan seats. “But even without tonight’s entertainment, you really should be thanking me for bringing you along. The shop seems awfully middle class and dull on the outside, but their custom pieces are the most beautiful creations. Like the theatre, but better. All colour and movement, except the hats don’t move at all. I can’t really describe it. They are magic. Remember the hat I wore to the Ritz last month? When I walked into that room, I became the centre of the universe.”
Ned couldn’t help but smile at the younger man’s enthusiasm. “Who makes these creations? A team of fairy godmothers working their fingers to the bone for your latest dramatic entrance?”
“I don’t know,” Hugh answered as if he’d never pondered the question before. Interest in others wasn’t his strong suit. “The owner is an impossible stick-in-the-mud, all old-fashioned and formal. I had to practically bribe the shopgirls to show me the custom hats.”
Ned glanced out the window. They had only a few minutes before arriving at the Marylebone address Hugh had given the driver. Time was up on word games. “As a point of reference, how much do you owe?”
Hugh met his eyes without any shame. “The stick-in-the-mud’s son and I’ve a disagreement about the terms of payment for a number of items.”
“Let me at least know the scale.”
“The cretin says I owe fifty pounds, which can’t possibly be right.” Hugh glanced at Ned through his long blond lashes, a manoeuvre that was almost insulting in its flagrancy. “But I was hoping I could rely on you to negotiate a more reasonable settlement.”
Which meant paying the bills. Ned bit his tongue against all sorts of responses. Fifty pounds was less than he’d feared, and it had been a while since he’d provided Hugh with a suitably large “gift.” Hugh’s acting brought in some income, but not enough to cover his lifestyle. He was always clear with his companions about certain costs. It wasn’t as if Ned needed to be concerned about money.
Hugh probably considered it payment in kind for the time he spent in Ned’s bed, although Ned liked to think that Hugh didn’t find him entirely unattractive. In truth, Ned preferred Hugh’s company and the dramatic fantasy that followed him to their physical relationship. Hugh was the sort of person that made every moment one of high levity or dramatic failure. His world was one where a tragedy was unexpected rain and victory was a delicious cake. Hugh provided an intensity of feelings that had been burned out of Ned’s soul during the war, but he could get a taste of it again when Hugh was around.
The motor stopped in front of a shop that was exactly as Hugh had promised—exceedingly boring in every respect. The hats in the window weren’t so much out of fashion as they were lacking any fashion at all, plain and serviceable. As Ned stepped out onto the pavement, he glanced up at the lettered sign above the door: “Villiers and Son, Fine Hats for Ladies of Distinction.”
There was no air to breathe.
It had been six years since he had last seen Corporal Charles Villiers, but that didn’t make reading his last name any less of a knife to the gut. A vivid memory flashed in front of Ned’s eyes. Charlie walking towards him, rifle over his shoulder, covered in mud, a cigarette in hand, grinning about some horribly inappropriate joke. Blue eyes twinkling, bright against his dull, brown-green uniform.
As quickly as it had appeared, the mirage shattered, and Ned found himself standing alone on the pavement, hands trembling.
It wasn’t the first time an innocuous reminder had sent him back to Flanders. He had once spent twenty minutes in a cold sweat after seeing a jacket with the same cut as his trench uniform. This was just another such moment of his treacherous mind resurrecting ghosts on the most spurious of connections. The extra twist of the knife was the sense of loss that crashed over Ned at the memory’s dissipation. A foolish wish that this time the memory had actually stayed with him longer.
There was no point in dwelling on any of that. It was 1923, not 1916, and there were hats to buy. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of Villierses in London; no reason for Ned to think that this shop had any connection to his Charlie Villiers. Hiding his still trembling hands in his coat, Ned pushed open the wooden door to follow Hugh into the shop.
In contrast to its dull window display, the store was elegant, bright, and surprisingly busy. Hugh had already pushed past three grey-haired ladies to get to the counter.
Ned hung back near the window displays, fighting the temptation to search the shopgirls’ faces for a hint of something familiar—the curl of brown hair, those laughing blue eyes, the freckles on pale skin. When he had first come back to London, he had constantly searched the crowds for Charlie’s face even though there was no guarantee that he would have returned to the city after the war. Yet living with the constant hope of hearing Charlie’s mischievous laughter across a busy street or spotting his curly brown hair from the window of a motor was the devil’s bargain that Ned had struck.
“Edmund!”
Hugh beckoned to him from the counter, snapping Ned out of his daydreaming. “Come and see!”
Ned moved through the other customers to join Hugh at the counter, where a partially constructed hat had been placed in front of him. It was, quite simply, magnificent. A take on a Panama hat, but somehow crisper and leaner. The colour was vibrant without being garish. Ned knew instantly that it would bring out the small flecks of gold in Hugh’s eyes. It was unmistakably a man’s hat, and yet there was this chimeric, feminine quality to it as well. Ned was enchanted.
So much so he failed to notice the shadow that fell across the counter. Someone cleared their throat. “Lieutenant Pinsent, what an unexpected pleasure to have you in our shop.”
Jesus fucking Christ. That low-timbre, working-class burr echoed in his bones.
Ned’s heart raced and, for a split second, he wondered if his broken mind had finally abandoned him and given in to delusions in front of his daily life. As he looked up at the shopkeeper behind the counter, he knew this was no shell-shock mirage.
Six years might have passed, they might be in a Marylebone ladies’ hat shop rather than the trenches, and wearing suits rather than uniforms, but there was no mistaking Charlie Villiers. His muscular figure stood a good half foot shorter than Ned’s. Charlie had no post-war softness, nor had his hair begun to thin. It was just as curly and thick as he had remembered, and his eyes were just as disconcerting.
A detached calm descended on Ned. His superiors at the front had always praised his ability to maintain his sangfroid under crisis. “Corporal Villiers! What a delightful surprise.” His voice sounded like another man’s—calm and composed.
Hugh glanced over to Ned, not bothering to hide his surprise. “You’re acquainted already?”
“I served under the lieutenant for two years.” Charlie’s voice was tight, his blue eyes never breaking with Ned’s.
“Four years at the War Office filing paperwork for Edmund? What inhumane suffering,” Hugh replied, his small smile showing that he was pleased with his own witticism.
“I didn’t do a lot of paperwork with Lieutenant Pinsent in the trenches, unless you count losing to him at cards. It was more along the lines of shells, mustard gas, and night raids.”
“And now you find yourself meeting again! Well, that’s one of the delights of London; you never know who you will run into.” The teasing look vanished from Hugh’s face, although his broad smile remained. Ned had deliberately never spoken about his time at the front with Hugh.
Charlie’s eyes flicked over to Ned’s, as if questioning the rapid change of subject. Ned couldn’t fault Hugh for not understanding. Like all Ned’s acquaintances these days, Hugh came of age after the war.
Hugh continued, breaking the awkward silence. “The Honourable Mr Pinsent is a dear, dear friend of mine. Always just so helpful in sorting out complicated issues.”
Honourable? The arse. Ned suspected that Charlie knew about his title, but he had been careful never to use it in the trenches. Certainly never with Charlie.
“I’m sure he is,” Charlie responded with a quirked eyebrow. It was such a familiar mannerism that Ned found himself once more at odds with himself, fighting the urge to gasp. “But I am afraid my position remains as it was, Mr Ruperston. We appreciate your business, but this is a business. We must be paid for our work. And there will be no more progress made on this hat, or any others, until you have settled up the account you already have with us.”
Before Hugh could respond, Ned cut in. “I understand Mr Ruperston’s debt to the shop is fifty pounds?”
Charlie responded evenly, “Forty-eight pounds, two shillings, and seven pence.”
The man had always been prideful as sin, no way would he accept any charity, even if it was letting Ned overpay him by less than two pounds.
Ned took out a pen and paper and wrote a quick cheque. “This should cover the funds in full.” Ned couldn’t imagine lowering either himself or Charlie to the indignity of haggling.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your respect of honest work,” Charlie replied.
“It’s the least your craftsmanship merits. That hat is stunning.” Ned took a breath. “It’s good to see you doing so well for yourself, Villiers.” This whole interaction was all so banal. It could have been any exchange between any two war acquaintances.
As he handed over the note, Ned’s fingertips met Charlie’s with the lightest of touches, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of emotion flicker across Charlie’s face, an indication, however quick, that this meeting was having a sliver of the same effect on Charlie as it was having on Ned.
Ned wanted to fall to his knees and cry. To yell and scream at Charlie for leaving him. To ask him a thousand questions about everything he’d done and seen over the past years. To push Charlie against the wall and kiss him senseless. To hold his face and memorise his body and all the changes six years had brought to it. After all these years, Charlie Villiers still shattered him. Completely, utterly shattered him.
Instead, their ridiculous theatre continued. They exchanged pleasantries regarding the completion of the hat, followed by an obligatory moan about the weather. Then Hugh was turning towards the door. Logically, Ned knew he should be grateful for this small interaction with Charlie, but emotionally, it burned that their last conversation would be about shopping debts and hats.
Ned already had enough regret about goodbyes for a lifetime. His mind cleared for the first time since entering the damn shop, and he reached into the front pocket of his jacket, pulling out his card.
“Good day, Mr Villiers.” He extended his hand and pressed his card into Charlie’s rough and calloused hand. “I hope our paths cross again.”
❖❖❖
Once back in the motor, Ned stared out the window, trying to focus on the red-brick shops which lined the passing streets. Finally, Hugh spoke, “I thought you said you were mostly at the headquarters.”
“I was,” Ned replied, continuing to stare out the window. “At the end.”
“You scream about it in your sleep.” Hugh paused as if wanting Ned to explain more, but Ned offered no response. Hugh broke the silence for the second time. “Was Villiers your lover?”
Ned didn’t want to respond to that question either, but in that moment, the weight of never speaking of Charlie, never speaking of what they had shared, felt like it was going to smother him. “Yes, he was.”
“What happened?” Hugh’s tone held surprising gentleness.
“I did something unforgivable,” Ned answered, unable to stop the words. “I saved his life.”
The latest in a four generations of romance readers, I proudly carry on the tradition of enjoying losing myself in stories where couples find their happy.
These Old Lies is my first novel, and draws off research on the First World War that I undertook as part of my beloved history degree. Getting under the skin of people who made up the past is one of my life long passions.
EMAIL: larriebartonwrites@gmail.com
