“If you’re referring to my darling virile Fitz, then yes.And I miss him dreadfully.But I also have a sick brother.Fitz will understand—we have the remainder of our lives together.”
“Do you?”Willoughby sounded incredulous.“It might be churlish of me to point this out, but as I’m ill, I can be excused anything.So I’ll go ahead and say it anyhow.”
He sipped at his water.“You and Papa both encouraged me not to pledge my troth to Lavinia.Mostly because her father is an inveterate gambler, but also on the grounds that I was too young to throw in my lot with the first chit to catch my eye.Does that argument not apply to you too?”
“Fitz is not my first, as you damn well know.”
“Yes, but cricket masters and stable boys aside, Fitz is the first for whom you have declared atendre.Do you want to be tied to a…another person when we go up for the season?Or, indeed, for several years to come?”
“We shall hardly be parading our amour arm-in-arm at one of Lady Butterworth’s soirées, Willoughby.I’m afraid that for chaps like me, discretion is a hard and fast rule.”
“That isn’t really the answer to my question, is it?Surely, you’ve had your fun with him, but perhaps you, too, could move on.There are plenty of other chaps like you, aren’t there?”Willoughby hesitated.“What’s so special about this one?You could find someone younger perhaps.And more…straightforward?”
“Dull, you mean?”For a moment, Rollo pictured himself sitting beside the fireplace, drinking tea with a faceless but impeccably dressed chap opposite, discussing the politics of the day.Not a toy soldier or brandy decanter in sight.“No thanks.”
Nonetheless, his brother did have a point.Willoughby’s illness had afforded Rollo many hours to ponder the nature of love and loss.Life in general, in fact.And whilst Fitz’s absence had taught Rollo that they could live apart perfectly well, it had also taught him he didn’t want to.
“Papa says that sometimes in life, one feels as if one is in freefall,” Rollo began.“As if one has misstepped and hurtled off a ledge.He was referring to some of the unexpected, unavoidable griefs we all face, often without warning.Your terrible accident, for instance.”
“And our poor mama’s demise,” agreed Willoughby, his face sombre.“I have heard him say it.”
“Yes.He was horribly lonely afterwards, I believe, until he found Charles.And then he fell in love with Kit.But even when one finds a person that one is prepared to love for years and years, as I intend to love Fitz—as Papa loves Kit—these dreadful events will still occur.Such as your accident.”
“Tragedy, illness, and other various horrors are simply the unavoidable consequences of being alive,” observed Willoughby grimly.“Even if one is never idiotic enough to jump a hedge in a raging thunderstorm.”
“Yes,” Rollo agreed.“But with Fitz, I imagine I shall survive them all.We shall fall from the ledge hand in hand.And that’s all there is to it, really.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
ROLLO WOULD CHIDEhim 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 penmooninglove 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.”
