Chapter 15
J ean-Luc cursed as he tried to shove a pair of boots into his trunk. He was an excellent packer. He had learned how to be so some time ago. Often in the past, he’d relied on a manservant, and they did have a vast many servants in the Briarwood household to take care of their things.
But there were some things he liked to do himself, and when he was in such a state, packing was one of them, because it was an indication that he was about to have a change. An act that signaled he was about to escape whatever unpleasant situation he was in and the feelings he was mired in.
It was true; he always escaped such feelings. It was an artful act. Whenever things became difficult, he knew how to get out. Getting out was a skill he had now honed to perfection. But the boots were not going in correctly, and he slammed the trunk shut.
As he did so, it came down upon his finger. He let out a curse, started hopping up and down, and thrust the wounded appendage into his mouth.
“That wasn’t very clever.”
He stilled and turned around.
Portia, his marvelous young cousin with a mind as razor sharp as any adult, stood in the doorway. The Briarwood children were different than any children that he knew, not because they were more clever, but in how they had been raised. The poor things had been exposed to Shakespeare the moment they could open their eyes. Various members of the household were always going into the children’s rooms and reading to them. They’d started out with the comedies of Shakespeare and progressed onto the tragedies. Some of them had already even read Titus Andronicus , which was quite shocking. But still, it was how the Briarwoods were. They did not believe in protecting children from the hells of the world. Instead, they explained to them why the world was the way it was.
It made them prodigiously precocious, strangely resilient, and they all had speaking patterns that resembled nothing like their young counterparts in society.
“I am not always clever, ma petite chou,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve always thought so. But you are definitely making a muck of things.”
“Am I?” he asked, sighing.
She entered without invitation. Like most of the Briarwood children, she knew the house belonged to them. The children were beloved, and he was glad of it. Children should be beloved. But right now, he wasn’t certain he wanted to have a blunt conversation with Portia and explain why he was in such a bad humor, because his feelings weren’t very adult. If anything, his feelings resembled those of the children who were still in the small nursery.
Portia had a much better handle on her own emotions. He would argue she had a much better control of them than he did.
Portia’s gaze flicked to the trunk. “Is she packing too?”
“Who is she?” he asked, though he knew exactly who Portia meant.
“Your friend, the woman you’re in love with.”
“Portia,” he warned gently, “you do not know—”
“I do know,” she said, “and it is absolutely silly what you’re doing.”
“It is not silly, Portia. Adults sometimes—”
“Adults sometimes act like fools,” she cut in impatiently. “It is clear to me from all of the works that I have read, but our family is usually better at this. You are not doing so well, and you haven’t been for a little while.”
He blinked.
“I’m worried about you,” she said with the sort of plaintive concern that only a child can have for an adult they care about. “Are you all right?”
The concern on her face was undeniable. There was a slight paleness to her features, a hesitation to her movements, as if she was afraid that he might rattle undone. And in that moment, he knew how very loved he was and what a place he had with his family, because Portia cared deeply for him. But he had to be very careful because he didn’t want to frighten her.
But how did he tell her she was correct? He was not doing very well.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Portia,” he began with far more conviction than he felt. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Tosh,” she replied firmly.
“Excusez-moi?” he blurted in French, which was a surprise, for after so many years now in England, he usually even thought in English.
“Tosh,” she said again. “Why would you let her go? You like her. You’re supposed to marry her. Grandmama says—”
“Oh, merde,” he said.
Her eyes rounded. “You are not supposed to say such a word in front of me.”
“No, I am not. Forgive me. But your grandmama, the dowager duchess, meddles a great deal.”
“Well, she’s not meddling in this. She said that I was to stay out of it, and that we should let you two get on with it.”
“Did she?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes,” she affirmed, clearly irritated. “Though I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think you need a good talking to, like when my governess, Zephyr’s wife, talks to me.”
He paused, curious now. “What would she say?”
Portia drew herself up, formulating her argument. “Giselle would say that I’m afraid of my own feelings, but that my feelings can’t actually hurt me, nor can my thoughts. I am hurting myself, and that I should stop doing such a thing. She would say I should tell my thoughts that they’re absolute nonsense, ask someone for a hug, and then get on with what is best for me.”
“That is very sensible advice,” he said, though he doubted he could take it. Adults were terrible at taking even the best of advice.
“Would you like a hug?” she asked.
He blew out a long breath. “Yes, I would.” And he knelt down on one knee.
Portia charged across the room and threw herself into his arms, wrapping him up in a childish embrace.
“Please don’t be silly,” she begged, burying her face against him. “I would hate to see you sad any longer. You’ve been sad for far too long.”
“How long?” he asked softly.
“As long as I’ve known you.”
He winced. “Oh, Portia, you are too good.”
“Yes, I am,” she agreed. “And I hope you listen to reason because…”
“What, ma petite?” he asked.
She leaned back. “You know who I’m named after, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Well, you know what play that’s from, don’t you?”
He nodded again. “Yes, Portia was Brutus’s wife, from Julius Caesar ,” he said, so she would know that he was very clear on the origins of the name given to her.
Portia worried her lip for a moment, then rushed, “She was a very noble woman. I like her monologue very much. She’s clearly very brave.”
He nodded. “Yes, she was.”
Then a strange look came over Portia’s face as if she was a little afraid to say what she was about to, and yet she began, “Well, you know the line, don’t you, in Julius Caesar , about cowardice?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Portia,” he gritted.
“I’m not saying you’re a coward,” she protested. “That would be terrible of me, and the truth is, I know that you’re also very brave. But people can change and make terrible decisions, and I should hate to see you do that now. That line, even when I was little, gave me the chills.”
He knew which line she meant. “You don’t have to say it.”
She nodded. “Good. I’m just saying that if you’re brave, like Portia in the play, you don’t have to die over and over again while you’re living. Cowards, they’re the ones who have to do that. That’s what Mr. Shakespeare says, and I think he’s right about most things.”
And with that, Portia took a step away from him and gave him a most serious stare. “I love you, Jean-Luc. All of us do.”
And then she turned and walked out of the room with the dignity and power of her namesake.
He stood there, wondering how the devil he had let it come to this—a child was having to try to pull him out of his misery. How had he let himself get to this place again? He remembered years ago, when he’d nearly fallen apart, and being put back together again by his Briarwood cousins. It felt as if he was on the brink of that again, but this time, it was because of his own choices.
He heard a long sigh from the hall. It was most definitely not Portia’s sigh.
“Who’s there?” Jean-Luc demanded.
Zephyr poked his head into the doorway.
“That was bloody awful, my friend.”
“Were you listening in?”
“Ajax is correct,” Zephyr returned. “One has to listen in if one wants to hear the interesting things.” Jauntily, Zephyr strode into the room. “What are you going to do?”
Jean-Luc shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Zephyr tsked. “Portia’s right. Shakespeare’s right. You don’t want to be a coward, my friend. Nobody does. It’s far too painful. You’ll feel it forever.”
“Why is leaving right now cowardice?” he ground out. “I always planned to leave with the family.” He pinned Zephyr with a hard stare. “You’re leaving. You’re going to London.”
Zephyr folded his arms across his broad chest. “Yes, but I’m not running away from anything here,” he said. “And you are.”
He winced. “Does everyone think that?”
Zephyr arched a brow.
“Sacrebleu, everyone does think that,” he snapped.
“It doesn’t really matter what everybody else thinks, Jean-Luc. It matters what you think. Are you running away?”
He reflected on his thoughts just before Portia came in.
“Yes, I am running away,” he exclaimed. “What else am I supposed to do? Pull Nimue into the hell of my existence?”
“I did with my wife,” Zephyr said without apology before he leaned forward and gave him an unyielding look. “And you encouraged it.”
Jean-Luc pursed his lips, not liking at all where Zephyr was directing this conversation. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?” Zephyr countered. “We’re all terribly good at telling other people what to do. Mama is the best. But sometimes we’re not very good at telling ourselves.” Zephyr frowned. “Actually, out of all of us, Mama’s quite good at advising herself. But most of us can’t. We need someone else to point out our foibles. The voices in our head convince us of the most terrible stuff. You know that already, Jean-Luc, and I’m going to do for you what you did for me.”
He narrowed his eyes, that last sentence making him quite nervous. “What?”
Zephyr’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “I’m going to tell you the truth and not let you get out of this.”
“Get out of what?” he demanded.
“Love,” Zephyr replied simply. “Cousin, you let the family love you, but only just. And Nimue clearly loves you, but you won’t let her. And you love her, but you won’t let yourself act on it. And here’s the thing. If you run away now, you’ll deny her love. Can’t you see it?”
Jean-Luc ground his teeth, wishing he could storm out of the room. But once in the past, he’d forced Zephyr to listen when he’d been on the brink.
How could he reject his cousin? He couldn’t. Not after all they’d gone through together.
“Maybe she’ll be happy without you,” Zephyr said carefully. “Who knows? It’s impossible to know. But I don’t think she’d be as happy as if you stayed, and that’s the truth. Are you willing to throw all of it away, the chance that you’ve got? Are you willing to throw that into the refuse?” Zephyr suddenly grew serious, his eyes hard. “You were given a chance. All your friends and family were not.”
“Don’t you dare,” Jean-Luc defied.
“Dare what? Say what is true like you did to me? You brought my brother, the duke, in to confront me when I was suffering. I won’t bring anyone else in. I think Portia did a good enough job. But I’ll tell you this. It would be the greatest dishonor to all of your friends, to your cousins, your mother, to all of the people who could not escape, if you keep living the way you’re living now. I won’t say anything else about it because I can’t make you do what I want, none of us can, but you’ll have to live with what you choose, and so will she.”
Jean-Luc couldn’t move under the force of those words, and he waited for Zephyr to add some last sally about the power of love.
But he did not. Instead, Zephyr stood silently, letting him think on all those people, all the ones who’d died, who’d lost their chances at love, who’d lost their chances at anything.
Jean-Luc cursed himself, cursed himself over and over, because he’d been trying so very hard to shut all of it out, and that was the greatest sin of all.
“Ah,” Zephyr breathed. “There you are. I’ve been hoping to see you come back to life.”
Coming back to life? Was that what this was? He did not know…but the feelings that charged through him were intense. And they were undeniably love. Love for Nimue.