Chapter Twenty-Four #2
The brothers exchanged glances again, and Charles ventured, "You're actually making jests about it. That's... unexpected."
"Your sister has corrupted my sense of appropriate ducal behaviour. I now occasionally display humour and even, on rare occasions, genuine human emotion."
"Very rare occasions," Ophelia added with a smile. "We shouldn't want him to strain himself."
"The horror," Alexander agreed solemnly. "Next thing you know, I'll be smiling at servants and remembering people's names."
"You already remember people's names," she pointed out.
"Yes, but now I use them. It's very disconcerting for everyone involved."
"Mrs. Morrison nearly fainted when you asked about her sister's health yesterday."
"A momentary lapse. I'm sure I'll recover my proper cold indifference soon."
"Well, I hope not," Edward said, then seemed surprised he'd spoken aloud. "That is...you're much more tolerable like this."
"Tolerable. High praise from a Coleridge."
"It is, actually," Charles said seriously. "We don't tolerate many people."
"A family trait I've noticed."
They were actually bantering, Alexander realized with shock. He was sitting at dinner with the Coleridge brothers, trading quips without bloodshed or broken artifacts. Ophelia was beaming beside him, her hand still in his, and he thought perhaps this was what she'd meant about families coexisting.
The conversation continued through the remaining courses, touching on safer topics—the weather (unseasonably warm), the roads (terrible as always), and surprisingly, literature.
"You've read Wordsworth?" Alexander asked Charles with surprise.
"I read," Charles said defensively. "Not just ledgers and trade papers. I actually enjoy poetry."
"Which poets?"
"Byron, mostly, though I know he's considered scandalous. Coleridge. Some of Blake's work, though he's often incomprehensible."
"Blake is an acquired taste," Alexander agreed. "His illustrations are more accessible than his verse, I find."
"You have some of his illustrated works?"
"In the library. First editions of several."
Charles's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Could I...that is, would it be possible to see them? Not touch!" he added quickly. "Just look. From a safe distance. With my hands firmly clasped behind my back."
Alexander considered. On one hand, Charles Coleridge in his library with his rare books was a recipe for disaster. On the other hand, the man seemed genuinely interested in the poetry, not just the monetary value.
"After dinner," he conceded. "Under strict supervision."
"I'll supervise," Ophelia offered. "I'll stand between Charles and anything valuable."
"Your confidence in your brother is inspiring."
"I'm being realistic. Charles around rare books is like putting a child in a sweet shop and telling them not to touch."
"I have self-control," Charles protested.
"You really don't," Edward said flatly. "Remember the incident at Hatchard's?"
"That was different. The book fell on its own."
"After you tried to reach the one above it."
"The ladder was faulty."
"The ladder was fine until you climbed it."
Alexander looked between them, then at Ophelia, who was trying not to laugh. "Should I be concerned?"
"Probably," she admitted. "But Charles does genuinely love books. He just gets... enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic. That word keeps appearing in connection with your family."
"We're enthusiastic people," Edward said with a grin. "It's the merchant blood. We get excited about things."
"Whereas aristocrats maintain proper emotional distance from everything?" Charles suggested.
"Exactly. It's why we're so boring at gatherings," Alexander said dryly. "All that breeding removes the capacity for genuine enjoyment."
"You're not boring," Ophelia said, squeezing his hand.
"I'm extremely boring. Ask anyone."
"You're selectively boring," Edward corrected. "Boring to people you don't like, which is most people. But when you're interested in something—like horses—you become almost animated."
"Almost animated. Another ringing endorsement."
"For you, that's practically effusive," Charles said.
They finished dinner without major incident, though there was a tense moment when Charles knocked over a salt cellar and everyone froze, waiting for Alexander's reaction. But he merely righted it and continued the conversation, even if Ophelia noticed his jaw tighten slightly.
After dinner, they did indeed visit the library, where Charles maintained an admirable distance from the Blake volumes while practically vibrating with the desire to examine them more closely.
"The detail in the illustrations," he said reverently, peering from a safe distance. "The way he integrates text and image; it's revolutionary."
"He hand-colored many of them," Alexander found himself explaining, moving closer to point out particular details. "Each copy is unique in that way. See here, how the tints vary?"
They spent an hour discussing Blake's work, with Edward occasionally contributing observations and Ophelia watching with poorly concealed delight as her husband and brother found common ground in their appreciation of art.
"You know," Charles said eventually, "you're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone completely frozen, incapable of genuine feeling or interest. Someone who only cared about bloodlines and tradition."
"I do care about bloodlines and tradition."
"Yes, but you also care about other things. Art. Horses. Our sister."
"Your sister is very difficult not to care about. Believe me, I tried."
"He tried very hard," Ophelia agreed. "It was quite amusing to watch him fail."
"I didn't fail. I made a strategic retreat from my emotional fortifications."
"You surrendered completely," she corrected.
"I negotiated a peaceful transfer of power."
"You capitulated after getting drunk on brandy."
"The brandy was excellent. It deserved respect."
"Everything about that night was excellent," she said with a smile that made him forget the brothers were watching.
"Oh no, they're doing it again," Edward complained. "They are looking at each other like we're not here."
"It's disturbing," Charles agreed. "Our sister actually likes him. Actually genuinely likes the Duke of Montclaire."
"I more than like him," Ophelia said, not looking away from Alexander's eyes.
"And that's our cue to leave," Edward announced. "Before this becomes even more uncomfortable."
"It's not even nine o'clock," Ophelia protested.
"It's late enough. We should go before Charles breaks something or you two start actually kissing in front of us."
"I haven't broken anything!" Charles protested.
"The night is young," Alexander observed.
They made their way to the entrance hall, where the brothers' coats were retrieved. There was an awkward moment where no one seemed sure how to say goodbye.
Finally, Charles extended his hand to Alexander. "Thank you for dinner. And for letting me see the Blake. And for... making our sister happy."
Alexander shook his hand, noting the firm grip. "She makes herself happy. I just try not to interfere."
"Still. We were worried. After last time, we thought..." Charles paused. "We thought we'd ruined things for her. Made everything worse."
"You did make everything worse," Alexander said bluntly, then added, "but sometimes things need to get worse before they can get better."
"That's unexpectedly philosophical."
"I have hidden depths. Ask Ophelia."
"Very hidden," she agreed. "It takes considerable excavation to find them."
"But worth the effort?" Edward asked, genuinely curious.
"Most definitely worth the effort."
The brothers left with far less drama than their previous departure, and Alexander and Ophelia stood in the entrance hall watching their carriage disappear into the night.
"That wasn't terrible," Alexander said finally.
"You enjoyed it."
"I tolerated it."
"You enjoyed discussing horses with Edward."
"His knowledge is acceptable for a Coleridge."
"And you enjoyed showing Charles the Blake editions."
"He has good taste in poetry for someone without proper education."
"You like my brothers."
"I absolutely do not like your brothers."
"You invited Edward to see the stables."
"A moment of temporary insanity."
"You're already planning his visit."
"I'm considering it. There's a difference."
She turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Admit it. They're not as bad as you thought."
"They're exactly as bad as I thought, but in different ways than expected."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they're loud, enthusiastic, and have no proper respect for tradition, but they're also intelligent, genuinely care about you, and Edward knows his horses while Charles appreciates poetry. They're complicated."
"Most people are complicated."
"I prefer simple."
"No, you don't. You married me."
"You trapped me with your Coleridge wiles."
"My wiles?"
"The snorting laugh. The kindness to servants. The way you look in firelight. All clearly calculated to destroy my defenses."
"Clearly."
They stood there in the entrance hall, holding each other, and Alexander thought about how much had changed since that horrible wedding day. They'd gone from strangers to adversaries to... this. Whatever this was.
"I love you," he said suddenly, surprising himself with the admission.
Ophelia pulled back to look at him. "You do?"
"I said I was falling in love with you. Past tense now. Fallen. Completely fallen."
"When did you know?"
"Sometime between you helping me with my boots and Charles not breaking anything tonight. The exact moment is unclear."
"Very romantic."
"I'm not good at romantic."
"You're better than you think." She stood on her toes to kiss him. "I love you too."
"Despite everything?"
"Because of everything. Even the difficult parts. Especially the difficult parts, actually."
"You're very strange."
"I'm a Coleridge. We're all strange."
"I'm beginning to realise that's not necessarily a bad thing."