Chapter 4 Alex
Alex
Alex rested his elbows on the rough concrete balustrade of the Dower House’s third-floor balcony, his vision firmly focused on the faint glow through the darkened forest. A few hours ago, the honeyed light of Silverburn’s North Wing had shone like a beacon, but apparently Raj’s guests, like Alex’s own, had finally called it a night.
“Are you missing her?” Lily’s voice chimed, smiling affectionately as he turned to face her.
At dinner, she’d been wearing a beaded yellow dress; it had looked surprisingly sensible—until she turned around to reveal an open back that skimmed her rear.
Thankfully, though, she’d changed into a pair of pyjamas, including harem trousers, before draping a silk nightgown over her shoulders.
“Just wanted a minute to catch my breath before bed.” A part of him wondered if Savitha Dey was asleep, or whether she was having last-minute anxieties about agreeing to marry a man she’d never met.
“I’m not surprised. Of all people, I didn’t think it would be you marrying after a whirlwind romance.” Lily nudged her shoulder against his excitedly.
“It had to get one of us eventually.” Alex gazed down at her fondly. It was the story he had offered to his family; thankfully, they’d accepted it, albeit with a healthy dose of astonishment—and he’d received a healthy dose of guilt in return.
It’s for their own good, his conscience whispered in his ear.
And that was true. The marriage would ensure neither Lily nor Ben would have to marry for money. If he told them how dire their financial situation really was, he knew both of his siblings would immediately feel obligated to do something about it.
Alex wanted them to remain unrestricted of such things. Lily could live her life as she wished and, if she chose, be free to marry for love.
He doubted Ben would ever marry. They’d overcome the worst of his issues: the waking nightmares, reliving memories of the trenches, the terror, the shaking, the harming himself.
It had been years since his brother had experienced crowds or loud noises, but Alex suspected Ben’s reactions would still jolt him back into that darkness.
No, it was better that Alex do this for them. Savitha sounded like an intelligent young woman; he could only hope their marriage was the start of a lasting partnership, just as his parents’ marriage had been.
“Do you know if there are any Indian customs involved?” Lily asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
“I did wonder about that,” he admitted. “But Raj—her father—said Savitha didn’t want any included.” At first, Alex thought that was a bit strange, but he supposed Savitha had left India at a young age. By now, she may consider herself to be more British than Indian.
He picked up the glass of brandy he’d been nursing since dinner, throwing it back in one go. “Time for bed, I think. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“One of us might be slightly busier than the other.” Lily let out a snort of charming inelegance as she watched him head towards the French doors.
“I can hardly wait,” he murmured, letting his hand rest on the door handle. “Good night, Lily.”
“Good night, brother.”
With a final glance, Alex disappeared inside.
The layout of the Dower House was much simpler than Silverburn itself, a formidable behemoth full of narrow passageways, secret doorways, and hidden rooms. The Dower House, by contrast, centred around a sweeping open-well staircase.
Given that this house was intended to be used by the dowager marchionesses who had married into the Lakenheath family, the only decorations lining the staircase used to be oil paintings portraying each individual dowager’s family home.
Most were inevitably stately homes or ancient castles, but there were a couple of London townhouses thrown into the mix—including the house in which Alex’s own mother called home in Kensington Square.
Since Ben had taken up residence here, a few additions had been installed.
From the first newel post on the first floor to the last on the fourth floor, Alex had mounted varying amounts of silk twisted cord pulled taut.
There was one cord on the first floor, two positioned side by side on the second floor, three on the third, and four on the fourth, to allow Ben to easily identify where he was at all times.
The Dower House may have been simpler to navigate through than Silverburn, but with so many floors, it was easy to forget where one was—even for Alex. He let his hand rest on the banister, the three silken cords running along his palm as he travelled up to the fourth floor.
Now that he was alone, he could be honest with himself. He was dreading the wedding. Not meeting Savitha Dey beforehand was a mistake, but he’d been so focused on the financial strain of his mother’s death that he’d wanted to get the marriage signed before Raj changed his mind.
Alex flicked on his bedroom light, deep in thought as he closed the door behind him. It was only when he looked up that he realised he wasn’t as alone as he thought he’d been. “Fucking hell, Ben!” he swore, recoiling back against the door with a thud almost as loud as his heartbeat.
His brother offered a roguish smirk, leaning back in the armchair with languid amusement. Possum the cat lazed on his lap, purring contentedly as Ben balanced one of his wide, textured books on a pillow. “I forgot about the light. Your face must have been a picture.”
Alex eased out of his dinner jacket, hanging it on the valet stand beside the wardrobe. “Did you ever see a painting called The Scream? By a Dutch chap.”
“Edvard Munch,” Ben said, his hands moving seamlessly over the broad expanse of the book in rhythmic fashion, following the lines of raised dots. “He’s Norwegian.”
“That’s the one.”
“If that’s true, then you’ve balded remarkably quickly, from what I remember of it.”
The corner of his lip hitched as he began to pick apart the knot in his tie, hanging it over his discarded dinner jacket.
“Thankfully not,” he replied, catching sight of his hair in the mirror.
It looked as it always did: a bluster of dark brown contrasted with a wedge of white over his forehead, courtesy of his piebaldism.
It was a condition he, Ben, and Lily had inherited from their mother, although Lily’s wasn’t always visible, given her habit of dying her hair.
Slotting the book’s tassel between the pages, Ben angled his chin upwards, his unseeing eyes sweeping from left to right.
The movement exposed the scars clawing up his throat; the first time Alex had seen them, he thought his brother had been attacked by a rabid dog, but the wretched truth nearly had him in tears.
“Are you looking forward to your wedding tomorrow?”
Alex gave him the same answer he’d given Lily. “I can hardly wait,” he insisted, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt—but going no further.
Incredulity stole over his brother’s expression. “Is everyone else buying that tosh you’re peddling?”
If Ben had spent more time downstairs this evening, he would have known that yes, their family and friends were, in fact, lapping up his claims of a whirlwind romance.
Alex should have known better than to try to fool his brother.
“Tosh?” he asked, falling into the armchair next to Ben’s. He closed his eyes, pouring out the worries of the day in a long breath and letting his head fall back against the cushioned upholstery.
“That you met her during your last trip to London and fell in love.” In his lap, Possum got to her feet, her needle-sharp claws digging into the arm of the chair as she stretched, before jumping down and sauntering out the door.
“It’s in your voice, the reluctance. I’m amazed no one else can hear it. ”
An amused huff shook Alex’s shoulders. “Calm down, Sherlock.”
“So if it’s not this torrid romance, why are you marrying her?”
He finally opened his eyes, contemplating whether to tell his brother the truth.
We’re about to be ruined financially, forced out of house and home, when you’re finally starting to heal.
“Is it so outlandish that I’d like to settle down? Besides,” he continued, deciding to offer a half-truth in lieu of a full one, “you aren’t wrong entirely. I didn’t want a huge wedding with hundreds of guests, but her father insisted. That’s the bit I’m dreading.”
Ben glanced in his direction, his eyes never quite connecting. “I don’t blame you there,” he murmured compassionately.
The hot stain of shame slid down his spine.
He should have picked another excuse, one that Ben couldn’t empathise with.
He’d nursed his brother through countless episodes of terror, holding him as he relieved trenches thick with yellow gas and men screaming in agony, sightlessly stumbling over dead friends as he suffocated.
Alex reached for Ben’s hand, pouring his remorse into a single squeeze. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
His brother raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
“Metaphorically.”
Ben released a bemused chuckle, patting Alex’s hand. He tucked his book under his arm and got to his feet, finding the edge of the long runner rug that would lead to the door. “Bring us some cake back tomorrow, would you?”
The question made him laugh. It evoked memories of back before the war, before Ben’s eyesight had been burnt away by mustard gas, before the hellish nightmare of shellshock touched him, to when they were boys, innocently sneaking cakes into the house when they thought no one was looking.
“Always,” he promised. “I’m told the bastard thing is six feet tall.
I’m sure I can squirrel away at least a foot. ”