Chapter 25
James
What had he done? What madness had possessed him?
He had kissed her. He had opened up to her. It was a grave error in judgment. The worst mistake he could have made.
What was it about Frances that drew him in, that made him so unlike himself? Or was it that he was being unlike himself?
Perhaps this was the person he would have been if it hadn’t been for his father’s harsh ways and the tragedy of Marcus’s death.
He sat up in his chair at the club and rubbed his face. “I cannot believe I just thought of Marcus’s death as simply a tragedy. For the past ten years, I have thought of it as my fault. I brought it on.”
He finished his whiskey and was about to order another when Gideon stumbled through the front door and joined him at the table. He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter and ordered a scotch.
“There you are,” he said. “I called at your townhouse, and they told me that you had gone to the club. Did you forget that we were going to go to Tattersall’s together?”
“Were we?” James had completely forgotten.
He had spent the entire morning pacing back and forth in his study like a caged beast. It wasn’t that he was avoiding Frances.
In fact, she had left the house early in the morning to take breakfast with Aunt Eugenia.
But he would admit that he had been glad she had been gone most of the day.
It had saved him from having to face her.
He had tried to work. Truly, he had. There were papers from Morrison about the estate, letters from Somerset Trust, and bills to review. But every time he picked up his quill, his mind wandered.
To the feel of her lips on his. To the way she had looked up at him with those eyes. To the terror he had felt when that horse had come thundering toward them.
He had gotten up. Paced. Sat down again. Gotten up once more. At one point, Franklin had knocked and entered with tea. “Your Grace, are you quite well? You look rather—”
“I am perfectly fine,” James had snapped. “Leave the tea and go.”
Franklin had set down the tray and departed quickly. And James had felt like a complete blackguard for speaking to him that way. Frances would have scolded him for it. She would have told him Franklin deserved better.
Frances. Always back to Frances.
He had noticed her glove then, lying on the chair by the fireplace.
She must have left it there yesterday before she went out.
He had picked it up, the soft leather still holding the shape of her hand.
He had held it for longer than he should have, remembering how her hand had felt in his as they walked through the park.
Then he had thrown it down and poured himself a whiskey, even though it was barely past ten in the morning.
He had found himself standing in front of Marcus’s portrait. Not the one with their father—he had had that removed immediately after Frances had hung it—but this one that showed Marcus alone, painted when he was twenty.
“What would you say to me now?” he had asked the painting. “Would you tell me I’m being a fool? Or would you understand?”
Once they were older,
Once they were older, no longer in school together, James and Marcus had grown close and he’d realized his brother always understood him. Even when he didn’t show it.
They’d come to an understanding and grown close.
Until James had gotten him killed.
His hands had been shaking when he poured the second whiskey. That was when he knew he had to leave the house. Go to the club. Get away from all reminders of her.
And now here was Gideon, looking at him with those knowing eyes.
For the truth was, James didn’t know what to say to his wife or how to behave. He had kissed her because in that moment, he had been afraid to lose her. But now? Now he didn’t know what to do or think. The fear was still there, sitting in his chest like a boulder.
“James,” Gideon called. “Are you present? You seem to be in an entirely different world.”
“No, no,” James said. “It is just…”
Should he talk to his friend? Gideon could already tell something was amiss. There was no point in pretending otherwise.
“It is just that Frances and I…”
Gideon sighed and leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head. “Go on, then. I knew there was something wrong. I should’ve guessed that it had to do with the young woman who presumably changed absolutely nothing in your life, by your own declarations.”
James waved his hand. “You need not remind me of my words. I remember them myself. And the truth is, nothing really has changed, other than—”
“Other than you,” Gideon cut in, wagging his finger at him. “Because you are not the same. I can tell. Now, tell me what happened.”
James shrugged. “We quarreled back at the house. She tried to surprise me by hanging up a painting of Marcus and our father, and I…”
“I see,” Gideon said. “And it set your bristles up, and you overreacted.”
“Yes,” James muttered, hating how well his friend knew him.
“I felt bad, so I decided to tell her the truth about Marcus.”
“You did?” Gideon’s eyes widened. “I do not think that you have told anyone the story in many, many years.”
“I didn’t, but she deserved to know. In any case, I told her everything, and she sought to comfort me. Told me that it wasn’t my fault.”
“It wasn’t,” Gideon agreed. “Your father is the one who swung the poker.”
“Yes, but if I had not lost my temper with my father earlier…” James waved his hand. There was no use regurgitating the entire tale. “But in any case, she was of the opinion that I was not to blame. And then she kissed me.”
“Oh well.” Gideon let out a whistle. “Well, well, well. Tell me once more how nothing at all has changed.”
“Yes, yes,” James replied.
He looked around. The club was not as busy at this time of the morning. Some gentlemen were here for an early luncheon, and he heard the clang of billiard balls being shot in the adjacent room, but there was no one in the vicinity.
“And what did you do when she kissed you?”
“Nothing,” he huffed. “I walked away.”
Gideon rolled his eyes. “You are an insufferable fool. A complete nodcock. I do not know how else I can say it. I adore you as my friend, but the foolishness must come to an end. I see the way you look at her, the way you look right now when you talk about her. You love her.”
“I do,” James confessed. “I truly do. In fact, last night we went for a walk, and she was almost trampled by an errant horse, and I thought I was going to lose her, so I kissed her.”
Gideon clapped his hands together. “So she kissed you, then you kissed her, and yet you look like you have lost. Why?”
“Because you do not understand. I cannot let myself love her.”
“Why not?”
James leaned back and tapped his index finger against his glass. “Because I could not stand to lose her. I cannot stand to lose someone else I love. And you know my temper.”
“Your temper is no more fiery than any other gentleman’s. You must not let your father decide the kind of person you will be for the rest of your life, for he is turning you into a miserable man, and he has been dead for many years now, so that is quite the accomplishment.”
Usually, James appreciated his friend’s directness, but now he wished he had never brought up the matter.
“I cannot get my father’s voice out of my head,” he said.
“And I cannot shake off this melancholy, this loss I felt when Marcus died. And I felt it again yesterday as I held her in my arms. I knew that I was going to lose her. I was certain of it. And then, when I didn’t, I felt such relief, but also such terror that next time I might not be so fortunate. ”
“Because you have fallen in love with her. It is easy to see. She is terribly likable. She is witty and clever, and genuinely caring and loving. No matter how much you try to tell me that she hasn’t changed you, I know she has.”
Gideon leaned forward. “I saw it when I visited, you know. The way you treated the servants. Softer. Less harsh. You smiled more in those two days than I’ve seen you smile in years. And your schedule—you adjusted it to spend time with her.”
“That was because you were there,” James protested.
“Was it? Or was it because she makes you want to be less rigid? Less controlled?”
James said nothing.
“And the tenants,” Gideon continued. “I spoke with some of them while I was out riding. They adore her, yes, but they also said you’d changed. More patient. More willing to listen. One of them said you actually laughed at something Mr. Sweeting said. You. Laughing. With a farmer.”
“What is your point?”
“My point is that she has changed you for the better, and you’re terrified of it.”
James looked away. His friend was right, of course. Gideon was always right about these things.
Gideon tilted his head to the side. “After all, if she hadn’t truly changed you, why did you leave that beautiful maid to her own devices?”
James sat bolt upright. “You know about that?”
“Of course I do. I am no fool. Besides, I went back the following morning and asked her if you truly stayed with her, and she confirmed that you did not.”
He shook his head. He should’ve paid the woman more for her silence.
“So why didn’t you go with her?”
“I did not feel like it,” James replied. “Must a man jump at every skirt just because it is available? I think not.”
Gideon snorted. “Or maybe it felt wrong because you already had feelings for your wife?”
James sighed. “Very well, it felt wrong. I think of myself as a married man, even though the marriage is on paper only. But in any case, it does not matter. I must stay away from her. I must keep my distance. This is dangerous for both of us.”
Gideon groaned just as the waiter set down another drink in front of him. He picked it up and finished it in two gulps.