Chapter Fifteen
Bobby
He can hear his teeth.
He’s never been well the next morning after more than three drinks, but this is one of the worst hangovers he’s ever experienced.
He can literally hear his teeth as they sit inside his head. And instead of spending the morning convalescing in bed, or more
likely bent over a chamber pot, he has to somehow survive Prince’s wedding. Which means making it down the stairs without
breaking his neck.
“You look horrid,” Albie says as he stumbles down the final steps, clinging to the banister for dear life.
“Thank you,” Bobby snarls, gratefully taking the glass of water their valet Mr.Tilty hands him, and pocketing the scone for
later, if his stomach feels solid enough for food. He really thought he’d cut himself off at the right time last night, but
God, it’s like there are hammers in his skull.
“Did you sleep at all?” Albie wonders, passing Bobby his top hat.
“I think so,” Bobby says, looking Albie over.
In his freshly tailored black suit with his top hat, Albie looks downright dashing. While Bobby feels like a well-dressed
sewer rat.
“It looks like you slept five minutes, at most,” Albie says, stepping up to redo his bow tie.
How could he have slept any more, when his dreams were full of ridiculous maudlin nonsense? Visions of him and Demeroven tandem-riding a horse around the Demeroven estate.
Albie steps back, deeming him... as fit as he can be for this morning. Bobby rubs his head, trying to clear it of the image
of him and Demeroven sprawled out on a picnic blanket, Demeroven’s hand in his hair. But the movement only makes him nauseous,
and he follows with a grimace as Albie makes for the door.
Before he can reach for the knob, the front door flies open, nearly knocking them both to the floor. Bobby grips at Albie’s
shoulder to stay standing, squinting in the bright sunlight. Mrs.Stelm stands harried and frantic in their doorway, eyes
wide.
“The baby is coming and you must come to the residence now ,” she demands.
All thoughts of Demeroven or Prince’s wedding fly out of Bobby’s head.
“Mr.Tilty,” Albie bellows. Bobby staggers as pain lances across his skull. “Send word to the Prince residence that we are
indisposed with an urgent family matter, and tell any and all callers that we are not at home, and not expected presently.
Mrs.Stelm, please lead the way.”
Bobby lets Albie yank him out of the house, following as best he can. Each footfall feels like a cymbal crash across his brain,
but he cannot miss this. Uncle Dashiell needs them. Gwen and Beth need them. And Aunt Cordelia—God had better see her through,
or they are going to have words. What if something happens ?
By the time they arrive at the Havenfort townhouse, Bobby’s stomach is doing battle with his throat. But he sucks in air,
willing his nausea down. They don’t have time for his hangover.
The front door bursts open as they come up the steps and Gwen, still dressed in her chemise and robe, ushers them in. Her hair has half fallen from the bun she slept in. Her hands tremble when she grips his and Albie’s arms, yanking them up the stairs without even a hello.
“You look horrible, by the way,” she says instead to Bobby.
Mrs.Stelm races around the corner of the stairwell, and they hurry behind her.
“Thanks,” Bobby says gruffly.
Mrs.Gilpe meets them at the door to Aunt Cordelia and Uncle Dashiell’s suite. Bobby’s never seen her so pale before, and
all thoughts of his own appearance disappear. She’s never anything but stalwart, Mrs.Gilpe. Tall, imposing, and fair. And
today she looks scared. That can’t be good.
Mrs.Gilpe hands Mrs.Stelm a bowl of hot water and gently takes Gwen from Bobby and Albie.
“Lord Havenfort is in his study. Mr.Verton is... holding him there. See if you can keep him downstairs? It’s early yet.”
“And—” Bobby says, glancing at the cracked-open door of the suite, where they can just hear Beth muttering something unintelligible.
“Lady Havenfort is strong and doing well. Dr.Brayton is here, and is well qualified, as both you and your uncle have confirmed,”
she continues, looking to Albie.
But even with that reassurance, Bobby watches how Mrs.Gilpe squeezes Gwen to her, notes the sheen on Gwen’s eyes. “I promise.
Now keep your uncle company, please.”
“Of course,” Albie says, taking Bobby’s arm.
Mrs.Gilpe guides Gwen into the bedroom and closes the door behind them, leaving Bobby with only a small glimpse of Aunt Cordelia,
sitting in bed with Beth behind her, rubbing her shoulders as she groans.
“Albie,” Bobby mumbles, turning to his brother. “What if—”
“Aunt Cordelia will be fine, and the baby will be healthy,” Albie says firmly.
“But—” Bobby starts, stories of his first aunt’s death, of Aunt Cordelia’s miscarriages, swirling through his head. And all
those statistics Albie’s been gathering for the Medical Act—how can he be so calm?
“We need to go and tell our uncle his wife and child will be just fine, all right? We’re here to be his confidence, to be
his comfort. We—we can have an entire bottle of scotch tonight, yeah?” Bobby groans, his panic giving way to how truly awful
he still feels. “Or some water and bread for you. But right now, we need to go be with Uncle Dashiell.”
“Yes,” Bobby agrees, letting Albie guide him back down the stairs and toward the study.
The portraits of Gwen at all ages comfort him slightly. Uncle Dashiell had a daughter. Aunt Cordelia had a daughter. And they’ll
all just pretend that Uncle Dashiell’s first wife, the aunt Bobby never got to meet, died... some other way. Some non-bloody,
non-horrific way.
The Havenfort valet, Mr.Verton, is indeed holding the doors to the study shut with his body weight. If he were a larger man,
and less of a compact, delicate fellow, perhaps his position would be doing more. As it is, the doors shudder violently behind
him.
“We’ve got him, Verton,” Albie says.
Bobby gently guides Verton away from the doors. A moment later, Uncle Dashiell nearly topples through them, just stopping
himself with Albie’s help.
“I need to see my wife,” he implores, looking among them.
“Sir, it isn’t proper—”
“I don’t give a flying damn what’s proper! I’m going to see my wife,” Uncle Dashiell insists, starting to push past Albie.
Albie grabs his arms, holding him back. Bobby steps awkwardly into the middle of the hallway, unsure of what to do. Are they
really going to bodily restrain their uncle right now?
“You need to stay down here,” Albie says calmly. Bobby can’t fathom where he’s finding his serenity. “Mrs.Stelm, Mrs.Gilpe,
MissWilson, and the girls have Aunt Cordelia. She is fine and doing well.”
“Your presence would only—” Verton starts.
“She’s my wife ,” Uncle Dashiell spits.
“And she needs to focus on what she’s doing,” Albie says firmly.
Albie shoots Bobby a look and he wets his lips. “She can’t have a safe birth and keep you calm at the same time, Uncle,” he
says, and his voice is a shaking thing.
Uncle Dashiell glares at him for a moment before slumping in Albie’s arms. “Fine. Fine. Come in.”
He pulls away from Albie and tromps back into the study, leaving Albie, Bobby, and Verton alone in the strangely silent hallway.
“Verton, please bring us a small breakfast, water, and the lord’s best scotch, would you?” Albie asks.
Verton nods and hurries down the hall and out of sight. Albie and Bobby stare at each other. For a moment, his brother’s eyes
are large and Bobby feels just a bit better, knowing he’s out of his depth here too. But then Albie shutters it away, nodding
at Bobby once before ushering him through the door.
Bobby steps into the study and looks around, aghast. What is usually an orderly, large room bordered with bookcases and enhanced by a nice sofa set, Uncle Dashiell’s large mahogany desk, and an assortment of knickknacks, now looks like a war zone. Papers are strewn over every possible surface. One of the armchairs by the sofa has... fallen over? Or more likely been kicked, given the broken glass baubles by the window.
Uncle Dashiell paces between the settees and a low table, hands fisted in his paisley dressing gown.
“Sit down, Uncle,” Albie directs, gently maneuvering Uncle Dashiell into the remaining armchair while gesturing for Bobby
to right the other.
Bobby does and then seats himself in it, feeling totally inadequate.
Uncle Dashiell scrubs at his face, staring blankly at the bookcases. Bobby glances at Albie and Albie looks back, equally
at sea, until he smirks. Which is very unsettling.
“Bobby’s terribly hungover,” Albie announces.
“Oi!” Bobby says, flushing up to his ears.
Uncle Dashiell blinks at the two of them for a moment. “That’s right, the stag night. How was it?”
From the tightness around his eyes and the clench of his jaw, Bobby can tell Uncle Dashiell couldn’t care less, but it’s something he can offer. “Rowdy. Cunningham throws a great pub crawl, and Prince had a wonderful time. Demeroven and I saw him safely
home. Hopefully he feels a tad bit better than I do this morning.”
Verton returns with a tray of scones and cream, three steaming mugs of tea, and glasses for the preposterously good bottle
of scotch he’s brought. He sets it all down on the low table between the armchairs and settee and gives an unsure bow.
“I’m fine, Verton,” Uncle Dashiell says, offering a truly unconvincing smile. “Thank you.”
“Very good, my lord,” Verton squeaks, and then flees the room.
“What have you been doing to the poor man?” Albie asks.
“More likely Mrs.Gilpe put the fear of God into him lest he let me see my wife while she’s in labor,” Uncle Dashiell says,
going straight for the scotch. “Hair of the dog?” he asks, pointing the bottle at Bobby once he’s poured his own glass.
“In my tea, sure,” Bobby says, holding out his mug for Uncle Dashiell to add a shot.
“That’s revolting,” Albie says.
Bobby takes a sip, and it is quite disgusting, but better than straight scotch at only ten in the morning. He tears off a
piece of scone, dipping it into the cream.
“Bobby,” Albie protests, at the same moment Uncle Dashiell is swiping his own dollop with his own torn scone. “You’re both
terrible.”
Uncle Dashiell gives Bobby a true smile and Bobby winks back. At least he’s helping somehow. He slowly chews his scone, then
nearly chokes as loud groans begin to filter through the ceiling. Albie hurriedly starts listing off all the research he’s
been doing to drown out the sound.
Bobby knows it’s normal, but it sends a sliver of dread through him to hear his aunt in such agony. How can that kind of pain
result in anything less than catastrophe?
“I could fetch Demeroven for you, if you’d like,” Albie suggests. Uncle Dashiell slowly rips his gaze from the ceiling. “He’s
been doing most of the aggregating of the various correspondence from the medical schools.”
Bobby winces. Part of him is desperate to see Demeroven. Would even appreciate his helping to distract Uncle Dashiell, but...
“One member of our extended family tree should be at Prince’s wedding,” Bobby says.
“Prince’s wedding,” Uncle Dashiell repeats, surprised. “Boys, I am sorry to have taken you from your friends. You can attend. This... will take some time,” he completes, just as the first true scream rips through the house.
“We don’t mind, Uncle. We’d much rather be here with you,” Bobby says honestly.
Uncle Dashiell gives him more of a grimace than a smile, and Albie launches into another round of statistics.
Bobby feels something from the previous night click against his brain. Friends . Is that what he and Demeroven really are now, odd family friends? Is that all they’ll ever be? Partners in keeping their
two families safe, joined by Uncle Dashiell and Aunt Cordelia, and Beth and Gwen? Will they see each other socially, as true
friends would? And would that really be enough?
The door to the study opens slowly and all three of them whip around to find Gwen padding into the room. She’s smiling brightly,
but Bobby can see the tension in every single movement she makes.
“Cordelia sent me to tell you she’s fine—this is all normal, and you know she’s loud—and she loves you,” Gwen says, coming
up behind Uncle Dashiell to wrap her arms around his shoulders.
Uncle Dashiell pats at her arm. “Right.”
“And that she hopes the boys aren’t getting you too drunk, but just the right amount, so you’ll be relaxed, but still safe
to hold my little sister.”
“Brother,” Albie corrects.
“Sister,” Uncle Dashiell says, squeezing Gwen’s arm and shifting so he can look up at her. “You’re a wonderful daughter, you
know?”
“I know,” Gwen says, before kissing his forehead. “Now, I’m going back upstairs, but everything is fine, and we’re all happy
and—”
Aunt Cordelia’s scream pierces the quiet of the study.
“And your wife is loud,” Gwen says firmly.
“Yes. That’s all it is,” Uncle Dashiell agrees. “Now go be with Cordelia, and give Beth a hug for me as well; I’m sure she’s
terrified.”
“Beth is ordering all of us around like a bossy little hen,” Gwen says, adoration in her voice.
“And Cordelia?”
“Loving every second of it.”
“Good.”
Gwen smiles at Bobby and Albie and goes to pull back from her father.
“Gwen,” Uncle Dashiell says, turning to hold her arm, so they can’t see his face. “I love you, very much.”
Gwen’s careful smile cracks a little, her eyes brightening. “I love you too, Papa. She’ll be fine.”
Uncle Dashiell nods and slowly relinquishes her. Gwen hurries from the room, wiping at her eyes. Uncle Dashiell turns back
to them, slumping in his seat. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath.
“I hope both of you know the love I feel for my wife someday,” he says, opening his eyes to give them both a piercing look.
“I do,” Albie says immediately. “I promise, sir, I love Meredith with all my heart, and I’ll need you both there to keep me
locked in my study when she gives birth.”
Uncle Dashiell reaches out and pats his shoulder. Bobby feels suddenly like the other in the room.
“It is a joy to love so deeply that you—that it is this terrifying to have your wife with child. That her health and safety mean the world to you. I did not know I could feel like this, that I could love like this, before she came back into my life, and it is a gift, boys. It is a true gift to be so happy that—that if anything happened to her, I think I would throw myself into the Thames.”
“I know,” Albie says.
If Aunt Cordelia... if something happens—Bobby doesn’t think he can stand losing his uncle, and his new aunt, and their
baby. Not now. Not after everything—
“I will not actually throw myself into the Thames,” Uncle Dashiell says.
Bobby blinks and finds both Uncle Dashiell and Albie looking at him in concern. “Right,” he mumbles, horrified to find he’s
let a tear slip down his cheek. “I’m sorry, I’m—I might still be drunk?”
Uncle Dashiell laughs, surprised, and Albie claps him on the back. Bobby smiles through it, a knot in his stomach.
“Someday we’ll find you a wonderful partner, Bobby, and you can take all that heart and give it to them,” Uncle Dashiell says.
He then turns to Albie and begins what promises to be a lengthy discussion about parliamentary procedure.
Bobby listens to their conversation as though through a haze. Not only does Uncle Dashiell want an earth-shattering love for
him, but he didn’t—he didn’t say wife . He said partner . Granted, the man is more agitated than Bobby’s ever seen him, worrying about the possible death of his wife and unborn child,
but still.
If Bobby can have a great love, he wants what they have. He won’t be content with trysts in corners, much less a traditional
marriage where he has to hide his true desires from his wife, along with the world. He won’t survive trying to bury his feelings
with propriety. He wants something real.
Around the third hour of pained screaming and Albie’s increasingly frantic recitations of cholera statistics, Gwen bursts into the study. Uncle Dashiell stands up immediately, knocking into the coffee table and sending their used cups crashing to the floor.
“Papa, come see. Come meet your son.”
Without hesitation, Uncle Dashiell takes off at a sprint, grabbing Gwen’s wrist and dragging her along as she shrieks with
glee. Albie and Bobby follow, and even after their frantic dash up the stairs, Bobby feels like he can take his first true
breath all day when they run into the bedroom suite.
There Aunt Cordelia sits, Beth beside her in the enormous bed, both of them grinning down at a squirming little bundle. All
three alive. All three well. All three beaming and beautiful.
Gwen guides Uncle Dashiell around to the opposite side of the bed, and Bobby watches, tears liberally falling down his cheeks,
as his uncle carefully climbs onto the bed, weeping, and reaches out to kiss his wife. Aunt Cordelia smiles into his mouth,
her brown hair sweaty, cheeks flushed. She takes his free hand to rest it against the crown of the little baby’s head.
Bobby startles as a man steps up to Albie. “Thank you, Doctor,” he hears his brother say, watches him pass the short, bespectacled
man an envelope with payment. Watches the man take his bag of medical supplies and quietly leave the room.
When did... How did Albie know to take care... Albie wraps his arm around Bobby’s shoulders and Bobby decides to forget
about the doctor and all the hours of uncertainty that just passed. He leans into his brother, watching their uncle, aunt,
cousin, and Beth as they all marvel at the miracle that is—
“Frederic Jonathan Bertram?” Aunt Cordelia asks, looking up at Uncle Dashiell. “For your brother?”
“Perfect,” Uncle Dashiell says, so much emotion in his voice that Bobby lets out a quiet sob of his own.
Gwen looks over at him, her arms wrapped around Beth, chin resting on her shoulder as Beth leans against Aunt Cordelia, Frederic holding her finger.
See? Gwen mouths.
Bobby nods and Albie chuckles.
This is what he wants. He wants a love like this. A family like this. He doesn’t know how to have it. But there must be a
way.
It doesn’t have to be Demeroven, even if he can’t stop thinking about him. Friends hardly seems like enough now as he watches Beth and Gwen coo over the baby, wrapped up in each other and happy. Beth and
Gwen found a way. Surely, he can find a way to make it work for himself.
And though it doesn’t have to be Demeroven... couldn’t it be? Couldn’t they find a way?