Chapter Twenty
Something was troubling Nico.
Titus was sure of it. He tried hard to hide it, but he often seemed oddly serious, or unsettled, or something, eyes frequently bright but not always with laughter.
Titus wondered again whether to bring up the subject of money, but it felt horribly awkward with Augustus in the house.
He had complained bitterly to Nico about Augustus having his hand out for money, not realising until too late that Nico might well now feel too ashamed to accept help himself.
He did not like to borrow from his friends; he’d like it even less with Augustus’s example in front of their faces.
Nico wasn’t hiding his opinion of Augustus.
Titus wished he would; it made it very hard for him to remember why he wanted to be on good terms with his brother.
He didn’t have any fond fraternal memories; he didn’t know the children that might have created a bond of affection; he certainly wasn’t seeing any effort on his brother’s part.
It was a sad contrast to the instant affection that had sprung up, or been revived, between him and Vespasian.
He rather thought he might be asked to stand godfather to the coming child, and was already planning what he might do in that role; he was deeply pleased that Vespasian had met Nico and been impressed, even if his brother would never know what that meant to Titus.
He was not remotely pleased that Augustus had met Nico, and the feeling was mutual in every direction.
Nico had replaced his cravat before they came down and looked perfect.
Augustus’s country coat made him look sadly bumpkin-like by comparison, a fact of which he was clearly aware.
He made some remarks about dandyism, which Nico ignored like a cat, which was to say, feigned obliviousness with a distinct possibility of claws.
They discussed what Augustus might care to do the next day, a discussion in which the man himself took little part.
His sulkiness put Titus on edge, it was so reminiscent of their father’s moods.
He had always needed to be asked flattering questions until he talked himself into a good humour again, and doubtless Augustus was used to Mrs. Augustus coaxing him out of his sulks.
Titus sighed inwardly. “Augustus, you were telling me about some land you had bought. Quite a significant enlargement of your holding, I think?”
Augustus agreed to that, though not very graciously, and talked about his lands while they sat down for dinner.
That led him to mention, not for the first time, how he had been invited to dinner by the Earl of Pakenham, the foremost local dignitary of his area, and how the Earl’s daughter Lady Cecilia had graciously displayed her talents on the pianoforte.
“If you would like to hear music, that can be very easily arranged,” Titus suggested.
He was at a dead loss what to do with his brother: the man had expressed no interest in the crowd-pleasing exhibitions, or Greenwich, or art, or Tattersall’s, or anything else Titus could think to offer.
“I could take you to … where does one hear music, Nico?”
“It is not an interest of mine,” Augustus said.
“I’m sure the good Monsieur Augustus will enjoy the promenade,” Nico said. “Perhaps you might take a stroll in Hyde Park tomorrow. Titus, have you an art lesson?”
“Lesson?” Augustus repeated.
“I am learning the techniques of oil painting,” Titus said stiffly. He’d intended to cancel the appointment quietly rather than admit his hobby to his brother.
“You are learning to paint?” Augustus echoed incredulously. “What nonsense. That is the occupation of schoolgirls, not grown men.”
“You think art is not for men? Monsieur, you must express that view to Sir Thomas Lawrence, or Sir Joshua Reynolds, or Michelangelo,” Nico said swiftly. “Or perhaps to Mr. John Angerstein, who greatly values your brother’s opinions.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“That, monsieur, is evident.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Titus said.
“It does matter.” Nico sounded sharp, almost angry. “You strive to improve your knowledge and understanding, and you elevate others by supporting their work. It is better than thinking of nothing but one’s own enrichment, adornment, or entertainment.”
That was so inarguable that Augustus didn’t try to argue it. He changed the subject instead, always a favourite tactic when on the losing side. “Talking of paintings, what is that painting in my room? Of the French Queen?”
Titus blinked. Nico said, “Ah, that is mine.”
“It resembles Madame Le Brun’s work, but it is not a composition I have seen before. A copy, I suppose.”
“No, indeed, an original.”
“Then why have I not seen it before?”
“Because it has never been engraved,” Nico said. “It was a private commission. Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun was a personal friend to the Queen, and this was a personal painting. Just for her.”
Augustus’s jaw dropped. “But how do you come to have such a thing?”
“A gift to my mother,” Nico said briefly. “You understand.”
Titus didn’t understand, and nor, clearly, did Augustus. “A gift to your mother? But who is your mother, Mr. er—?”
He’d all too clearly forgotten Nico’s name. Titus said, “The Comte de La Motte, Augustus.”
“De Valois-Saint-Rémy de La Motte,” Nico said. “My mother was Jeanne de La Motte.”
He didn’t say it with anything like the exuberance with which he had introduced himself to Titus. He sounded almost embarrassed, and Titus instantly saw why, because Augustus gave a huff of contempt. “The thief and harlot? That is not a relation to which I would care to admit.”
“Augustus!” Titus shouted. “What the devil? How dare you speak like that to my guest!”
Augustus recoiled in shock, but recovered at once. “Are you aware who that woman was?”
“Yes! She was Nico’s mother, and you are grossly insulting!” He was on his feet, somehow. “Apologise at once. Apologise or get out of my house! I will not stand for this!”
His brother looked like he’d been savaged by a lapdog. “I daresay I spoke in haste. However—”
“Not ‘however’! For God’s sake, man, just admit you were at fault for once in your life!”
Augustus shoved his own chair back and stood. “I am the head of the family, and you will not take that tone with me!”
“I will take what tone I please in my own house!”
Augustus was going the ugly red of haematite. “You are offensive and ill conditioned. Is this a way to treat your brother?”
“You invited yourself to stay and came into my house as if you owned it. You have insulted my friend, complained about everything I have offered you, and demanded my money,” Titus said furiously.
“So I might ask you the same question, except I already know this is how you treat your brothers. It’s why Vespasian will never speak to you again. It’s why Hadrian is dead!”
Augustus’s head went back as though Titus had slapped him. Titus had shocked himself almost as much. They stared at one another in ringing silence for a few seconds; then Augustus said, voice shaking, “That is unjust.”
“You took everything Father did as your due, and supported him at every turn, even when he bullied Hadrian into the Navy. You could have stopped it. If you had told him no, you could have stopped it!”
“It was a good profession! He had to do something!”
That too-familiar justification threw oil on the fire of Titus’s long-suppressed rage. “It was done to get rid of him! He was fourteen and terrified, and we had quite enough money that he did not have to be sent to sea!”
“You were a child; you do not know anything. Father had extended himself greatly to buy Nether Field. He was obliged to reduce the household expenses—”
“He didn’t have to buy that land! He chose to buy it so you could be a landed gentleman—”
“It was for the family!”
“What family? The rest of us were cleared out for it! He consigned me and Vespasian to drudgery, and sent Claudius and Hadrian to their deaths!”
“You were all set to good professions! He secured your futures!”
“Well, he certainly secured Hadrian’s,” Titus snarled. He was shaking with anger, wanting to use the long-suppressed words like whips.
Augustus’s eyes were bulging. “That was the chance of wartime. What do you suggest he should have done? Did you all want to sponge off the family forever?”
“How dare you? I have worked all my life with not one penny’s help from you, and what have you ever done? You took everything Father handed you as your birthright—”
“It is my birthright! I am the eldest son!”
“Yes, you are the eldest, and you have every right to keep all the good things of the earth for yourself,” Titus said savagely.
“And as a result, Hadrian and Claudius are dead, you and I have not spoken in years, and Vespasian will never speak to you again. You chose to be ‘head of the family’ when you might have been a brother, so you have no brothers any more. And I hope you are more of a father to your younger children than ours was, because I tell you what, Augustus, for a man with five sons, there was very little sorrow at his funeral.”
“You cannot speak so to me,” Augustus said, panting. “You cannot speak of my family.”
“You spoke very freely of Nico’s family, and you have spoken to me with nothing but contempt since you arrived. You may be the head of the family, Augustus, but I am not its foot!”
“It seems to me that you are the one throwing insults here,” Augustus said. “Your manner is grossly uncivil and your accusations wild and offensive. And this is all blown up from a trivial comment. I cannot understand you.”
It was so wretchedly familiar: the tone, the words, the gambits.
You’re making a fuss about nothing, and How dare you raise your voice at me, and You’re always so unreasonable.
Titus wanted to shout, or to scream, or, deep in a long-trained, guilty part of him, to apologise.
He clenched a fist, resentment boiling over like milk on a stovetop.