Chapter Twenty-Three
ROLLO WOULD CHIDE him for moping about, so Lyndon threw himself into fruitfully filling his days.
With Benedict’s visit planned for later in the year, some of his rarely used rooms required attention.
To keep himself occupied, he oversaw his small household’s every task.
Lyndon might never fully convince his brother he was a decent man, but at least he could demonstrate he ran a tight ship.
When he ran out of chores at home, he made a nuisance of himself at Will’s.
He harvested mangel-wurzels and, under Will’s exacting supervision, pickled his haricots in brine before the moisture set in and ruined them all.
Lyndon restocked his library. He instructed a picture framer to do something with his ghastly attempts at landscapes, strewn all over the nursery.
He visited the poorhouse with Mr Simpson and then dined with him afterward and even expressed interest in the vicar’s latest ailment without a grumble.
But, most of all, Lyndon pretended he was not anxiously awaiting news of his beloved.
He pretended not to notice that not a single letter arrived.
He pretended not to notice the emptiness of his days.
After all, how could they be empty? They were no different from before Rollo Duchamps-Avery had opened his box of old toys and donned a dusty red dress.
Lyndon told himself that his stupid sulk and their subsequent quarrel, the last time they breakfasted together, was nothing more than a lover’s tiff.
He reassured himself he’d been less of an ass than he imagined.
“You could always pen a letter yourself,” Will suggested one afternoon, not unreasonably. Four weeks had trudged by without either the crunch of carriage wheels or fresh news.
“No.” Lyndon daubed a streak of mud-brown paint across his current effort.
Broken Plough in Autumnal Gloom. For a change, he’d had the stable boy bring Will up to the house so that Lyndon wouldn’t be absent should Rollo arrive.
In fact, he hadn’t left Goule for over a week, one half of his mind still determinedly kidding the other that one of Rossingley’s fine carriages would parade along the gravel at any moment.
“Dare I ask why not?”
“No, you may not.”
For the next minute, Lyndon concentrated on mixing up another equally miserable shade of brown, aware of Will’s sharp gaze trained on him.
“I’m not gifted in penning letters,” Lyndon blurted. “And I have too much self-respect.”
Will made a scornful, snuffling sound. “Ah. That’s what we’re calling it, are we?”
“That’s what it is,” retorted Lyndon. “Rollo was warned of this before he left. I’ve never been a chap moved to pen mooning love letters, and I’m not about to start. Especially when he’s going to roll up at the front door any day now.”
“Your self-respect flirts far too easily on the edge of pride,” Will remarked. “And pride, after four weeks of staring out of the window waiting for him or news of him, is a luxury you can ill afford. In my opinion.”
“Then it’s jolly fortunate I didn’t ask your opinion, isn’t it?” snapped Lyndon irritably.
“True,” Will agreed. “But as I’m stuck here until Jack appears to take me back, you’re getting it anyhow. At least if you wrote to the boy, you would have peace of mind.”
“He will come,” insisted Lyndon obstinately. “He is a man true to his word.”