Chapter 11
Eleven
“You are supposed to be on your honeymoon,” Albert Vestiere declared, pinning August in the doorway with a look that could have parted a smaller man’s hair. “Yet here you are, haunting my sickroom. Is this devotion or a plot to hasten my decline?”
August found the old routines came easier in this room—no need for performance, not when the only audience was a man who had once bested him at every game. “If I wished you dead, I would simply set the Duchess loose in your wine cellar.”
“Ha!” Albert barked, a laugh shredded at the edges by a cough. He patted the counterpane with a palsied hand. “Come in, then. Gloat over my mortality while you can.”
August closed the door behind him, careful to latch it without sound.
The chamber was a study in slow defeat—medicine bottles crowding the bedside table, the reek of laudanum warring with the lavender sachets his mother insisted upon.
Albert was propped up on a fortress of pillows, a tartan shawl around his shoulders, a ledger open at his knee.
Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, pale as milk, and made the hollows of Albert’s face seem almost luminous.
August crossed the carpet, ignoring the creak of the boards. He set his hat aside then pulled a chair up beside the bed. “I trust you slept well, Father.”
Albert snorted. “Only as well as a man can, being repeatedly awoken by the sound of his own lungs.”
“You should have married a soprano,” August said, “or a lighter sleeper. Mother claims you snored even at your healthiest.”
The old man’s lips twitched. “Your mother exaggerates. She does not believe in silence or in letting a man have the last word.”
“She married a duke,” August replied. “There is no silence in the peerage. Only the illusion of it between crises.”
This earned a smile, one that lingered a moment before the next cough stole it away. Albert closed the ledger with a shaky hand. The motion left his fingers quivering, like the stem of a leaf in wind.
“I suppose you will want a report on my progress,” Albert said. He waved a hand at the bottles. “The apothecary claims I shall live to see another summer, provided I take my draughts and refrain from arguments.”
August regarded the array of tinctures, powders, and pills. “That sounds like a direct challenge.”
Albert’s eyes brightened then dulled, a candle fighting the wick. “I have never shirked a challenge, even if it means quarreling myself into an early grave.” He looked up at his son.
August’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone light. “I prefer to avoid surprises. They are never as interesting as advertised.”
For a while, the only sound was the shuffle of Albert’s hand sorting papers. August watched his father work, noting the way he paused after every third motion, as if each page weighed a pound.
“Has the Marchioness settled in?” Albert asked, without looking up.
“She has,” August said, “though I suspect she is still deciding whether to redecorate or simply burn the place down and start fresh.”
“That’s the proper spirit.” Albert coughed, a short burst. “I have always thought the house could use more fire.” He tipped his chin. “And your arrangement? Does she hate you yet?”
August allowed himself a real smile. “Not for lack of opportunity.”
Albert’s gaze was direct. “Then she is worth the trouble.” He set the papers aside. “You do not fool me, you know. All this bluster, all this management—you are terrified.”
August shrugged. “A prudent man is always a little afraid. It keeps him from walking into open graves.”
Albert studied him then took up a water glass. His hand shook so violently that a third of the contents splashed to the counterpane. August reached over and steadied it, wordless, waiting for the tremor to pass.
After a moment, Albert let go. “Thank you,” he said, quieter than before.
“You could ask for help,” August said but made it sound like a joke.
“Never,” Albert replied. “If a Vestiere starts asking, he’ll never stop.”
They sat in silence again, the morning growing brighter and less forgiving. August folded his hands, fingers knotted, and watched the dust motes drift in the shaft of light. The old man’s breathing was shallow but even. For a time, it seemed as if nothing needed to be said.
But then Albert shifted, pulling the shawl tighter. “Do you know why I was hard on you?”
August had heard this lecture a hundred ways. “Because you cared. And because you could.”
Albert ignored the sarcasm. “I wanted you to know how to be alone.”
August considered. “I have mastered the skill.”
“I see that.” Albert leaned his head back, eyelids fluttering.
“But I see something else, too. You are building a wall even as you furnish the house. Every act of kindness, every perfect answer, is another stone.” He paused, catching his breath.
“You should let someone inside before it hardens for good.”
August said nothing.
Albert pressed on. “It is not shameful to need. Even a Marquess such as yourself is allowed to want.”
August tried for a laugh, but the sound caught. He cleared his throat. “Are you preparing your deathbed speech already, Father? I had hoped for more fanfare.”
Albert’s mouth twisted. “If I had my way, I would die in the midst of a Parliament scandal or perhaps at the gaming table, cards in hand and everyone in the room cursing my name.”
“I will see what I can arrange,” August replied.
Albert smiled, thin but genuine. He reached for August’s wrist, grip dry and papery. “You were a good son. Better than I deserved.” The words landed with the weight of finality.
August covered his father’s hand with his own. “You are not done yet.”
Albert coughed again then laughed. “No, I suppose not. I have at least two more dramatic recoveries in me.” He drew a deep breath, as if to savor the morning. “But mark me, August: do not let your heart turn to marble. Even if it keeps you standing when the rest of the world crumbles.”
August absorbed this. For the first time, he had no clever answer.
Albert relaxed against the pillows, eyes closing. The effort of the conversation had drained him, leaving his features slack. After a moment, his breathing slowed.
August waited, counting the rise and fall of his father’s chest, before he rose and adjusted the blanket, tucking it in at the shoulders.
He moved the ledger to the bedside table where Albert could reach it if he woke.
He poured another glass of water, set it within easy distance, and cleared away the medicines into a neat row.
At the door, he paused and looked back. Albert’s hand was still curled, fingers bent as if holding something invisible.
August watched a moment longer then left the room, closing the door with the gentlest click.
He walked the hallway with even steps, already plotting the hours ahead—the tenants, the letters, the staff meeting, and, yes, the necessary visit to London. But the words echoed with each stride: do not let your heart turn to marble.
He would have laughed, but the sound caught somewhere beneath his ribs.
Instead, he straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair, and prepared himself for the next performance.
“There are at least four windows in this room, Mrs. Finch, and yet I would wager none of them have been opened in a year.” Eliza’s voice carried through the hallway as August passed the drawing room.
He paused and listened. He liked the sound of her voice when she believed herself unobserved. She spoke softer yet delivered her point.
“His Grace always preferred the curtains drawn,” Mrs. Finch replied, the affection in her tone as pronounced as the deference. “Said the sun was a brute and could not be trusted.”
Eliza made a small sound of agreement. “I cannot fault his logic, but I will suffer.”
“Shall I open the windows for you, My Lady?”
“That would be delightful.”
There was a scrape of sash and a burst of clean air as Mrs. Finch obliged.
August stood outside the threshold, coat still on, hat in hand, feeling suddenly ridiculous.
For years, he had entered every room as though he owned the air inside it.
Now, he hovered in a liminal space, uncertain whether he was welcome or only expected.
He looked in.
Eliza stood with her back to him, arms folded, the white muslin of her frock almost glowing against the dark wood paneling.
Her hair—always so perfectly arranged for the benefit of London—had surrendered to the country humidity, several strands escaping the knot to frame her cheek.
Mrs. Finch was at the window, wresting a particularly stubborn catch.
For a moment, August simply watched. He was struck, not for the first time, by the unremarkable symmetry of her features: the mouth too often pressed into a line, the straight nose, the remarkable clarity of her eyes.
Nothing in her appearance would have made her beautiful, and yet she unsettled the entire composition of a room by being in it.
She turned, as if she felt the pressure of his gaze. Her posture altered instantly; her shoulders pulled back, and her chin rose slightly. He had never seen her relax in his presence, not truly, and he hated the way this lingered between them.
“My Lord,” she said, with a curtsy so quick it was almost unkind. “You have returned.”
Mrs. Finch echoed the greeting, bobbed, and made a rapid exit with the pretense of urgent curtain inspection in the next room.
August stepped inside, affecting the confidence he no longer felt. “I see you are reorganizing the household already.”
“Not reorganizing,” Eliza said. “Merely attempting to prevent mildew. I assure you, any changes are entirely superficial.”
He set his hat on the table and regarded her. The silence felt like the first seconds of a duel—neither participant eager to fire but neither willing to look away. He realized, belatedly, that he still wore his gloves and stripped them off.
“How was London?” she asked.