Chapter Twenty-One
Titus tried to raise the subject again when they went to bed that night. He had told Mrs. Thorpe not to bother with a truckle bed. His bed was large and wide, and it was commonplace to share. He’d done so plenty of times in poverty; he would take the benefit of it now he was rich.
Rich with the money that might have been Nico’s. He’d stopped feeling guilty about that largely because of Nico’s insistence he didn’t have to, and now the feelings were back with a vengeance.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” he began as they undressed. “I’m sorry. That must have been a horribly uncomfortable dinner for you.”
“Infinitely worse for you, mon ami.”
“I’m glad you intervened. I had quite lost my temper and I was about to say some things, more things, I would have regretted.” He sighed. “I should not have mentioned Hadrian.”
“It needed to be said. Do you believe this conversation tomorrow will be useful?”
“Well, Augustus seemed hurt at what I said, and if he is willing to think about it, if he regrets how things are, then perhaps…” He glanced at Nico’s face in the candlelight. “You don’t agree.”
Nico shrugged. “He may have regrets, but I suspect it will not take long for him to turn them into your fault. He is not a man who can tolerate being at fault himself. And if he does not think he is at fault, he will not change.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Titus sat on the bed to peel off his stockings. “To be honest, he reminded me of Henry. He cannot be in the wrong either, whereas I always fear I might be.”
Nico had stripped to only his shirt. He walked up now, bare legged, and wrapped his arms around Titus’s waist. “You fear that too much, mon cher. I know you are not always certain of yourself, but you have an excellent heart and your instincts are sound. You stood for yourself tonight, and I was proud on your behalf.”
“I wish I hadn’t had to. I wish we could be better brothers.”
“But your brother’s self-esteem requires him to be master. You are all heart, but I fear Vespasian was right to say Augustus is all stomach. He will disappoint you. I wish you will not let him hurt you. And if things go poorly and you require help in kicking him out, I am at your disposal.”
Titus rested his cheek on the top of Nico’s head. “I am so glad I have you, Nico. You do so much for me, and it means everything. Er, about the things you were telling us—”
“Ah, no, not now, mon coeur,” Nico said. “Please. Just come to bed.”
They made good use of the night. Nico seemed in a wild mood, bringing Titus to ecstasy with his mouth, then begging for a fuck in a tripartite mixture of French, English, and pure filth.
Titus slept like the dead afterwards, and found himself able to face the morning and Augustus with something close to equanimity.
Nico had gone out, though he was not usually an early riser.
He was clearly troubled, and Titus was not going to let it go on any longer, no matter how awkward it might be.
Nico had said to trust his instincts rather than worrying about his awkwardness, and he would do just that.
He would make Nico tell him what was wrong, and if it was within his power to solve the problem, he would.
He would give all the money that might be needed with pleasure; he rather hoped the problem would require more than money from him, so he could return just a little of Nico’s care.
That decision made, Titus had a cup of tea in much-appreciated silence, at least until Augustus came down to breakfast with the demeanour of a man in his own house, rather than one who’d had a significant falling-out with its master.
Titus had been readying himself for a difficult conversation; now he found himself wondering if there was any point.
He could lay out all his hurts and complaints, and his brother would tell him he was making a fuss and go on as he always had done.
It seemed like a great waste of energy with the memory of Nico’s lips on his skin, Nico’s hips in his hands.
It had to be done. “We should have that conversation after breakfast,” he said, albeit without enthusiasm.
Augustus rolled his eyes. “Really, Titus? This again? I would have hoped you had slept off your ill temper. I am prepared to forgive your rudeness last night, but I will not tolerate any such rag-manners in the future.”
Titus considered that for a few seconds.
Then he said, “Very well, it will not be a conversation. I am not going to give you any money. I am not going to marry under your direction, or buy Mrs. Augustus a London house, or fund children I have not met. You and Father made it clear all my life that the family owes me nothing, and I have accepted that, but it goes both ways.”
Augustus’s mouth was open. Titus poured himself more tea. His hands were just a little shaky.
“This is unconscionable,” Augustus managed at last. “I have been magnanimous, but your ill-gotten wealth has gone to your head. You count yourself a man of importance now, yet you do not understand your duties or responsibilities to your family. Is money all that matters to you? I suppose one might expect this grasping, materialistic approach of a shopkeeper.” He enunciated the last word with distaste.
Titus had a lot he would have liked to say to that, but he knew how much good it did to get mired in argument.
“If you would ever care to start again, to meet me as an equal who deserves as well as gives respect, let me know. I should like to have nephews and nieces. Until then, I don’t think there is anything more to say.
You will probably want to return home today. ”
“This is the grossest incivility and insult I have ever encountered. You have always been jealous of my position, and now you resort to spite and malice simply because chance has favoured you. It is contemptible. I hope you will not come to regret it.”
Nico had observed that the only way to stop people like this was death threats.
Titus wasn’t going to resort to that, but he had absolutely no desire to continue the exchange.
“Mrs. Thorpe will have your things packed, and Mr. Thorpe can inform you about coaches. I will leave you to your breakfast. I need some fresh air.”
He went out to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, as the nearest green space, and walked briskly around until he felt slightly less strangled, and slightly less inclined to strangle anyone else.
Henry had loved that manoeuvre of making himself the victim in an argument.
No matter how dreadful he had been, he could always turn it round to make Titus the one at fault, and Titus, ever ready to assume he was wrong, had been helpless against that.
It was easier to see the tactic when Augustus was doing it.
Perhaps he was less skilled at it, or perhaps Titus had cared more for Henry than he did his brother.
Perhaps he was absorbing some of Nico’s insouciant ability to offend.
Not that Titus wanted to be rude, as such, but when the alternatives were letting oneself be trodden on or causing offence by refusing, one had to be prepared to do the latter.
He wished it had not gone this way. He wished Augustus had said, I thought about your words last night, or I understand why you were angry. He didn’t have to agree, just to try.
But he had not tried because he would rather lose his last brother than admit he was wrong, just as Henry had preferred to lose Titus than to stop his games.
Titus felt oddly detached as he reflected on that.
He had begged Henry to be kinder, and been devastated to realise his own wants didn’t matter at all.
He felt a similar little knot of unhappiness now to know that Augustus was the same, but it was a very remote pain.
He had done enough caring for people who didn’t care for him. That was what it came down to, and it was a liberation.
And, he realised, what had freed him was caring for people who cared back.
As a starving man would eat from the gutter, a man hungry for affection would take what he could get, even if it came with brutal kicks.
Now that Titus was rich—rich in Nico, in Vespasian, in the Thorpes, in the various friendships and connections he was gaining the confidence to pursue—he could afford to be a little more discriminatory.
He was becoming someone who decided how he let people treat him, and he felt a fierce pride in that, along with a certain embarrassment it had taken him to the age of thirty-one.
He thought about that as he walked around and around Lincoln’s Inn Fields until the clock struck eleven. He had been a good forty-five minutes, he realised. Nico was doubtless back by now. Augustus might be packed and ready to go. He hoped the two of them weren’t arguing again.
He hurried back to the house, where Mr. Thorpe opened the door, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Mr. Pilcrow. You have a visitor in the parlour.”
Titus could tell that: he could hear voices from here, Augustus and another man he didn’t recognise. He had no idea why a stranger should have been admitted to chat to his brother in his absence. “Does Not At Home mean nothing to anyone?” he enquired a touch irritably.
“I do apologise, sir. He asked to see Mr. Pilcrow, and I regret that Mr. Augustus Pilcrow heard him and insisted.”
He had doubtless stamped forward announcing loudly that he, and only he, was entitled to be addressed as “Mr. Pilcrow.” Titus sighed. “Of course he did. I’m sorry, Mr. Thorpe. Who is he?”
“A Mr. Chilcott Baynes. The Comte is with them. However—might I speak to you for a moment first, sir?”
Titus needed to get Augustus to leave, deal with whoever this Baynes man might be, and most importantly speak to Nico and smooth the worry from his face. “Could it wait? I was hoping to restore order. Which is to say, is Augustus leaving?”
“Mrs. Thorpe is packing his things now. This is quite important, Mr. Pilcrow.”