Chapter 32
GEORGE
“Let’s go out into the gardens, Freddy,” George said. “I can take you out in the bath chair. It’ll do you good to get some sun.”
Freddy, who was staring out of the window, didn’t turn his head. “Not you too, George,” he said wearily. “Father’s been on at me enough.”
“Don’t you want to go out?” George asked gently. “Aren’t you sick of being cooped up in here all day?”
Freddy had barely moved from his bedchamber since George had arrived home three days ago.
He got up each day, but with his torso and right arm criss-crossed with all manner of bandages and straps, more or less immobilising his upper body, it was impossible for him to get properly dressed.
Instead, he wore a loose robe over his trousers and moved around slowly, his expression pained as he took each slow step.
A month ago, Freddy’s regiment had been sent to quell a riot in Accrington. His horse had been struck by a rock in the melee. The beast had panicked, reared, and fallen—and Freddy had been rolled beneath its massive frame, breaking his shoulder and several ribs.
He was lucky to be alive. Luckier still to have been treated by a surgeon the same evening, a man skilled in the close reduction of broken bones.
By some miracle, he had escaped infection and only suffered a few days of fever.
He was a strong, vital young man who would survive his injuries.
But only time would tell how well he would recover from them.
The surgeon had advised him that his best chance was to remain as still as possible for as long as possible, to give the bones the best chance of mending cleanly.
And so his right upper arm was held rigidly between pasteboard splints and linen, and his forearm was secured in place across his chest, his ribs all firmly strapped up.
Poor Freddy was in constant pain, and driven nearly mad with boredom, but that wasn’t what worried George the most.
His brother had always been a cheerful, sociable fellow, and very talkative.
When they were younger, George used to say Freddy was too talkative, even hiding away from him sometimes, when he wanted peace to read.
Now, though, he would give anything to hear Freddy prattling on the way he used to.
Anything would be better than the brief glimpses of despair George had caught in his brother’s gaze these last few days.
“I've barely noticed being cooped up, to tell you the truth,” Freddy said, almost disinterestedly. “My thoughts have been elsewhere.”
“Do you want to share your thoughts with me?” George asked quietly. “You know I’m a good listener.”
A sad little smile tugged at Freddy’s mouth. “I do know that.” He paused. Sighed. Said, “It probably sounds ridiculous, but… I don’t really want to say the words aloud.” Shaking his head, he gave a huff of unamused laughter. “Christ, you’ll think I cracked my head as well as my ribs.”
“I can understand why you feel that way,” George said gently. “But it might actually help to spit it out. And you know I won't tell anyone else.”
He saw the moment Freddy gave in, the slight easing of his tense frame and the softening of his pinched expression. “All right,” he whispered. “Here’s the truth of it.” He paused, seeming to steel himself, then said flatly, “I don’t want to go back.”
“Go back?” George echoed, even as understanding dawned. “To your regiment, you mean?”
Freddy swallowed and nodded, his face flushing. “I know. It’s shameful. I badgered father for months and months about buying my colours. He didn’t want me to do it, but I insisted it was the right thing.” He closed his eyes, his expression pained.
“And… it isn’t?”
Mutely, Freddy shook his head. “I’d imagined myself having adventures in far-flung places.
Instead I was posted to Lancashire with nothing to do but occasionally engage in unequal skirmishes with my own countrymen—unarmed men.
Women too, sometimes.” He clenched his jaw.
“Where’s the honour in that?” He shifted in his chair, and another grimace of pain passed over his face.
“So, what do you want to do now?” George asked slowly.
When Freddy whispered, “Sell my colours,” he had to fight not to show his shock.
After a long pause, he said calmly, “And? What’s the problem with that?”
Freddy shook his head again, misery in every line of his body. “Father would have every right to be furious,” he said, his voice hoarse. “After all my carrying on? And I’ve hardly been in my post any time at all. God, can you imagine what people will say?”
“I don’t think you believe Father will be furious any more than I do,” George said evenly.
“Honestly, I think he’ll be relieved. You know he hated the idea of you being in the military.
He only agreed because you were so sure it was what you wanted.
As for what anyone else thinks—” George swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat.
“—does that really matter? Do you want to live your life according to some notion of duty or obligation? Or do you want to live? Really live?”
Freddy stared at him, his eyes wide and surprised, and George couldn’t help but wonder if his own expression was similar. Even though he had uttered the words, he could hardly believe they had come out of his mouth, taunting him with how right they were.
He didn’t say aloud the other words that occurred to him.
That, in any event, Freddy may have no choice in the matter.
If he ended up with permanent damage, he may never be able to return to his old post. Cavalry officers needed two, strong working arms. They had to be able to control their mounts in the midst of battle while wielding heavy sabres.
With the best will in the world, the chance of Freddy being left with some permanent weakness was not inconsiderable.
“That’s just it,” Freddy said hoarsely. “I’m not sure what else there is for me. I don’t want to go back to spending all my time in gaming hells, getting drunk and losing money hand over fist. I need some purpose in my life, George. If nothing else, the cavalry gave me that.”
“You have so many things you could do,” George said. “Politics perhaps, or maybe the church? Or, perhaps you should try university after all?”
Freddy gave a reluctant laugh. “I detest politicians, can’t remotely see myself as a vicar, and you know better than anyone that I’ve never been academic. But I appreciate your confidence in me, George.”
George set a hand on his shoulder and met his gaze. “There are lots of other choices you could make, Freddy. God knows there’s plenty to do around here.”
“Yes, but—that’s your thing, isn’t it?”
“You mean because I’m father’s heir.” It wasn’t a question and Freddy didn’t take it as one. He sighed and looked away.
George searched his mind for the right words. At last, haltingly, he said, “This might be difficult for me to explain, but I don’t… see it like that anymore. The way I look at life has changed recently and I—” He broke off, frustrated with the inadequacy of his words.
“Changed how?” Freddy asked, turning back to him. Then, with that peculiar acuity he occasionally showed, he narrowed his eyes at George and said, “Is this something to do with Ollie Fletcher getting married?”
“No—well, I suppose indirectly…” George trailed off with an uncomfortable huff of awkward laughter.
“Are you still pining after him?” Freddy asked bluntly.
George groaned, embarrassed. “Not anymore. Not for a while, actually. But I suppose his wedding did play a part in this.”
It had, after all, brought Theo Caldwell back into his life.
After a moment, he added hurriedly, “Ollie and I were only ever friends, you know.”
Freddy’s brows raised, his scepticism clear.
“Well—mostly,” George mumbled. “But the point is, Ollie’s nothing to do with the change I’m talking about—quite the opposite. The change is more in how I see my life and my future. How I want to live.”
“And how is that?” Freddy asked, his expression alive now with curiosity.
George met his gaze squarely. “Well, I don’t want to get married.”
Freddy’s brows rose in surprise. “No? I had the impression you were thinking about marrying quite soon.”
“I was,” George said with a rueful smile, “but I finally realised that I really don’t want that. And now that I’ve admitted as much to myself, I see that it would be quite unfair to trap some poor girl into marriage with me.”
“Oh, George,” Freddy said fondly. “Don’t you realise how many young ladies would happily volunteer to be your duchess, even knowing you could never love them? For the title alone, never mind the riches and jewels.”
“Yes, well, that’s not the sort of woman I would want to bring into our family.”
“True,” Freddy agreed.
“The thing is,” George said. “It doesn’t much matter that I am father’s heir. You are mine. So, you see, you have every bit as much of a stake as I do in the running of our estates. And just as much reason to be involved.”
Freddy stared at him, for once speechless.
Unhurriedly, George got to his feet. “I’ll leave to you to think about that for a while,” he said gently. “I’ll be back in half an hour with the bath chair.”