Sebastian did not quite know what to say to Browning on this subject. They had never spoken much of their own ideas on love and responsibility and family. At Oxford, there had always been too much fun to be had, too many deadlines to meet. Thereafter their talks had revolved around society and hunting. Until this very moment, he could not have ever guessed at his friend’s romantic notions.
“Of course,” he said, because it seemed the only thing to say. Perhaps Browning contained multitudes.
“Well, then, I suppose we are in business discussions rather than talk of love. More’s the better, as I am a better businessman than I am a matchmaker. Do you have conditions for this marriage?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No. I shall show your sister the utmost care and give her whatever she needs and, when possible, what she wants as well. I will care for our estates with the same diligence that I have cared for the home up north. I only ask for the sixty thousand pounds and my continued friendship with you.”
“Excellent conditions. I have a few of my own.” Setting his glass back down. “If you take a mistress, you will be discreet. And I do not mean ‘discreet’ in the way that other men in thetonare. I mean that no one knows about it. Not myself, not Bancroft, not a single soul. I will not have my sister embarrassed publicly.”
Sebastian had not planned on taking any mistresses. He knew that some marriages were not made up of great fidelity, but he’d always fancied himself the loyal sort, and had no unusual passions that a wife could not fulfill.
“Understood. I can agree to it.”
“Good. You will speak well of her to others, you will grant her freedom to move about, and you will never lay a handon her. Are those amenable points to you?”
“Yes, of course. I would gladly give her that and more.”
“Alright, then. I trust you, Brightwater. I have seen how you treat your mother and sister. I think you would be precisely the kind of man that Auggie could admire. She is a proper, quiet sort who does not make waves, and she will never cause you to be looked down upon. That being said…”
As Browning trailed off, Sebastian’s ears perked up. He was very aware that whatever his friend said next would be the catch to this whole bargain. And whatever the catch was, it would last a lifetime.
Browning sighed, looking down in defeat. “No man will ever call me a deceiver. So, I must tell you a few things about Auggie before we make any agreement. She is…” he started, then shook his head, deciding against whatever it was he was about to espouse.
With each passing moment of silence, Sebastian grew more concerned. He’d known, of course, that Miss Browning was a wallflower, but she had been nothing short of respectable in every interaction they had had. A bit plain, a bit difficult to read, surely, but nothing so damaging to her character.
Now, though, the look on Browning’s face made Sebastian wonder just how defective his future bride truly was.
“She is ill,” Browning said, entirely too fast, as though he were spitting the words out. “But not…not in body. She is ill in the mind. Melancholia.”
Ah. The Braithwaite book sprang to his mind. He’d only gotten to the section on melancholia the evening before, at which point he’d set it aside to read later. Now, he had the urge to rush home and parse through it for answers.
Thus far, Sebastian was not well acquainted with the condition,though he had heard of it before. People who withdrew to a disordered degree, who stared off into space at parties and seldom smiled, and doctors sent them to the country for fresh air.
“I see,” was all that he could say on the subject without revealing his ignorance. “Was that what ended her first courtship, then?”
Browning nodded. “I believe so. She had a sudden spell before he could offer for her hand, and it lasted some time. It scared him off. I can’t say I regret it. He was a weak-willed man in many other respects, and my sister would never have seen him as a good leader.”
“Has she always had it?”
“Yes, I daresay, though it’s gotten better with time. After our parents’ death, it occurred quite frequently. Now, it is far less so. It almost always happens at least once during the winter, though it has happened at other times as well.”
The way that Browning spoke of it, so vague and threatening, made Sebastian think of the way that some people spoke of demon possession - in hushed tones, with great superstition.
“What do these…spellslook like, exactly?”
“It is as though she becomes a specter for a time. Sometimes for a few days. At its worst, it lasted three months. She mostly stays in bed, though she does move to eat or do some other small piece of business. I talk to her, and she nods, but it’s as though she’s not actually in the room. It can be frightening, if I’m being honest, though you are never to tell her I’ve said as much.”
“Of course not,” Sebastian said absently.
“She always comes out of it on her own. I simply have to leave her be, and then one day she gets out of bed and joins the living again, and everything returns to normal. But the spells are chaotic. I’ve never been able to predict when one will happen. Attimes we’ve incurred terrible tragedy, and she has persevered in good spirits, and other times nothing triggers it, but suddenly, she’s slipped away again.”
Browning’s expression turned wistful and far away. Sebastian suspected that his friend had begun to wander through some distant memory.
“You do not have to worry,” he said, unsure if Browning was even listening. “I shall take care of her, both in and out of her illness. I swear by it.”
The expression disappeared, and Browning returned to their conversation with sudden clarity. “I require your word, Brightwater. Whether you ever have love for her or not, you will always act as if you do. If ever her condition becomes severe, you will never stoop so low as to have her committed. I will not have my sister die nameless and forgotten in an asylum.”
“You have my word. I will never have her committed. She will always be in comfort, always in her home.”
