Chapter 18 #2
“The truth was,” Algernon went on, “we could not afford to buy a decent officer’s commission for Peter, much less for Peter and Michael.
Michael had quite the tantrum over it. I’ve managed to pay off most of his debts, those that weren’t forgiven in memoriam, but Bry was determined to blame himself.
I did not correct that view of matters. Perhaps I am the black sheep after all. ”
Nobody argued for the defense, not even the loyal Miss Quiggan.
“You are the heir,” Bryson said tiredly.
“You can be a blackguard but not the black sheep, and I refuse either office. We aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Michael could be a right pain in the arse.
Brilliant and so forth, Mama’s favorite, the brightest of us, but a pain in the arse.
I still miss him, and I probably always will.
I meant what I said about Wren’s settlements.
If she’ll have me, she need not know of Papa’s poor investing.
If she won’t have me, we’ll contrive to keep her in ignorance somehow. ”
Miss Quiggan rose. “You will not marry Wren merely to prevent her sorry settlements from becoming a subject for gossip, Bryson. I won’t have it.”
He smiled at her, pure merriment, though tired around the edges.
“Neither would I, Quiggy. Neither would I. When the time is right, I’ll explain the whole convoluted mess to her.
The time is not yet right. Algernon, I will not call you out—unsporting odds, given my wartime expertise—but I can and probably will beat the stuffing out of you when you are feeling more the thing. ”
Algernon nodded stiffly. “Forewarned and all that, but Quiggy gets to throw the first punch. Perhaps you’d ensure she enjoys some lemonade, Bry? I’ve a bit more to say to Lord Julian.”
Hyperia rose unassisted, looked as if she wanted to say something, but settled for kissing my cheek.
“Please don’t leave the Keep without me, Perry. Wave Lady Clo and Her Grace off the premises in the coach, and I’ll escort you back to Lady Clo’s later.”
“I’ll be waiting.” She sent Algernon a pitying gaze and decamped with Bryson and Miss Quiggan.
“I suppose you know?” Algernon asked when he and I were alone.
“I am sorry, Carstairs. Syphilis is a curse.” The off-center bald patch years before such a development would have been expected.
The dull rash on his neck. The midday session with the ledgers that might also have been a way to cover up fatigue, headaches, low fevers, body aches…
The list of miseries was long and familiar to any soldier who’d marched under Wellington.
“Have you told Miss Quiggan?” I asked.
“I suspect she knows. I am losing my locks in odd places. I have sore throats in high summer. I have rheumatism that comes and goes—an elbow in autumn, come spring it’s my knee.
I will think I’m finally done with the whole litany of woes and go months in good health and then another sore throat.
Or my appetite deserts me. Bry will have the barony, of a certainty, because I’m told yet another aspect of this ailment is an inability to sire children. ”
“Not always, though it’s also possible to pass the ailment on to a child.” We’d had a very competent French physician in camp from time to time. St. Sevier had been educated in Scotland and had both a physician’s grasp of theory and a battlefield surgeon’s appreciation for physiology.
“For the child to have the ailment,” Algernon said, “the mother must be afflicted with it first. Do you think I’d risk visiting this blight on Amelia when she’s the best friend I will ever have?”
“You’d visit spinsterhood on her instead? She’ll thank you profusely for that. No lady could possibly prefer to be a baroness with a very cordial white marriage when she could instead hold the dubious honors of a spinster of the parish.”
Algernon rose and poured himself a drink from a bottle kept out of sight in the cupboards of the sideboard.
“I would rather have her alive to hate me, or to love another, than know that I cursed her and her offspring with this disease through my selfishness. I’ve been selfish enough for a lifetime. Join me?”
I nodded, despite having no thirst for spirits. A condemned man should not have to drink alone.
“Listen to me, Carstairs. To make a decision for Miss Quiggan that involves the rest of her life is the ultimate selfishness. When I became engaged to Miss West, we both believed I was unable to…” I waved a hand.
Algernon set out two glasses. “Sire children?”
“Engage in the preliminaries to conception. The necessary preliminaries.”
He ceased banging cupboard doors and stared at me, a brandy bottle in his hand. “Unable?”
“Unable. The flesh was not merely weak, the flesh was entirely uninterested in the whole undertaking. Not an inkling of desire no matter the available inspiration. Miss West agreed to have me despite that failing.” If a failing it had been.
I had gained all manner of insights during those months when desire had gone absent without leave.
Algernon still hadn’t poured the drinks. “And despite this terrible affliction, you agreed to be had. Why?”
“Because I love Miss West, and she loves me. Ask most people who’ve lost a beloved spouse if they would have that spouse back for another day, even if conjugal bliss would not figure in the extra time together.
They will say yes. A marriage is not merely a union of bodies for procreative purposes.
I would hope marriage is a friendship first, a true, deep friendship. ”
“You sound like Quiggy.” He splashed a finger of potation into each glass.
“That is a compliment, by the way. A sincere compliment. I will think on what you say. She points out that I cannot use her settlements for anything unless I marry her. I counter that they are her settlements, not mine to plunder, and then she kisses me, which is unfair tactics, but effective.”
“You owe Bryson an apology.” Algernon owed me an apology, too, for that nasty shove on the icy bridge, if nothing else. He might well have come looking for me had I not emerged from the woods, but who knew how long he’d have waited on the back terrace before heeding his conscience?
“Right. I owe Bry an apology and that boy too. Your tiger was not supposed to find the weakened ice. While we’re balancing the scales, Bry and I both owe Peter a comeuppance.
Hypocritical toad. Sneaking into a lady’s boudoir, sneaking a cheroot here and a biscuit there.
He ought to preach on humility for the entire six weeks of Lent. ”
I was not about to let Algernon bluster past the main point.
“You owe Bryson an apology. A sincere, heartfelt apology. Do not allow him to sell his property. Do include him when you explain this whole situation to your father. Do not let Bryson beat the stuffing out of you without making an effort to defend yourself. Give as good as you get, or it won’t count. ”
“How do you know this?”
“My brother explained the particulars of a deserved beating to me when we were quite young. To your health.” I sipped. Algernon had found the good stuff. I was glad to know he had some.
“To brothers,” Algernon said, sampling his portion. “We’ll set Peter to praying for my health. Or prevail on Mrs. Fipps. She’s the best pray-er we have. You’re certain we have to let Papa know what’s gone amiss?”
“Yes, and you will listen to what he has to say, which might be some sort of apology as well.”
Algernon took another sip. “You are going home to Surrey tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“Safe journey, but if you don’t mind, I will ask Bry to stay on for a bit, or more than a bit. I know he has responsibilities in Surrey, but it’s the dead of winter, and Bry knows all about seeds and plows and breeds of sheep. We might pass the time doing something other than playing billiards.”
“Good thought.” I finished my drink and left the Dunsford heir refilling his glass in the slowly darkening parlor.
“But, Julian, how did you know?” Hyperia asked as we wended our way arm in arm toward the footpath that connected the Keep and Glen Maye.
Though the sky was turning mauve, pink, and gray as the light faded, the stones of the Carstairs family seat seemed to glow with the remnants of the sun’s power despite the approaching night.
“How did I know which part?” I replied. “I am still not certain of all the details, but I noticed that at the Keep, I have not enjoyed my usual sense of visual acuity. I confused Atticus and Leander when I spotted them in the minstrels’ gallery last night.”
“They are both small, active boys with dark hair, and the minstrels’ gallery was in shadow.”
“True, but I know those boys, Hyperia. I know how they move. I know their gestures and attitudes. Then I could not tell Algernon from Bryson canoodling with Miss Quiggan, though I eventually sorted that out. I wasn’t sure this morning if Bryson was on his own horse, or if he’d purloined Algernon’s mount. ”
“Both chestnut geldings?” Hyperia asked as we approached the park’s tree line.
“Yes, but again, I am a keen observer of horseflesh, and Bryson’s beast is in better weight than Algernon’s.
When I confused the horses, I realized that mistaken identity might be a notion worth considering.
If I, highly trained in observational skills, can be so easily and frequently confused, perhaps Bryson had been mistaken for somebody else. ”
“Or Bryson’s horse was at fault?”
“I owe that leap to little Lark Carstairs. When she was setting up the Scots Greys, she remarked that the horses have to be right. She alluded to the depiction of the Waterloo battlefield, but the comment was so odd coming from such a young child that I noted it.”
“She is a bit different, as small girls go. I liked her. Why does it always seem quieter in the woods?”
“Because the wind calms down, usually. All the tiny sounds carried to us from far away don’t reach us here.”