Page 220 of Courting the Wrong Duke

He had told her very little about the visit afterward. At first, that had been because he had not known what to say. Even now, several days later, he was not certain he had entirely made sense of it himself.

The doctors had warned him that Algernon’s condition had deteriorated since his arrest. He had become increasingly agitated and confused, sometimes violent and at other times scarcely responsive, until it had finally been decided that an asylum was more appropriate than an ordinary prison.

William had believed himself prepared for that.

He had not been prepared for his brother to look at him without recognition.

“He knew me for a little while,” William said. “At least, I think he did. Then he asked whether Father was coming.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, William.”

“I told him no.”

Even now, he could not decide whether the answer had comforted Algernon or frightened him. Perhaps Algernon himself had not known.

“I mean to go again.”

His mother searched his face. “You know you do not have to.”

“I know.”

That was precisely why he would.

Nothing Algernon had suffered excused what he had done. William would never forget that Rosalind’s father had been imprisoned because of him, or that Algernon had nearly killed Edmund rather than allow the truth to escape Bryn Hir. But acknowledging the man his brother had become did not require William to forget every version of him that had existed before.

He still remembered the boy who had chased him through gardens and the young man who complained whenever William cheated at cards. He remembered the brother who, however misguidedly, had spent years trying to shield William from the ugliest parts of their family.

“He is still my brother,” William said.

She nodded, her eyes shining. After a moment, she asked, “And Augusta?”

William exhaled.

Two letters had arrived from New South Wales so far, both addressed to Algernon. He had taken the first with him on his visit and read part of it aloud.

“Did he understand?” she asked.

“I do not think so. When I told him Augusta had written, he asked who she was.”

Pain tightened his mother’s face.

William had once imagined that Augusta suffering some consequence for what she had done might bring him satisfaction. She had known Algernon was keeping Edmund prisoner, helped him conceal it, and lied to Rosalind when she came too close to the truth.

Yet when Algernon had asked who Augusta was, William had felt no satisfaction at all.

Only sadness.

“I will keep the letters,” he said. “Perhaps one day he will remember her.”

“And if he does not?”

William looked down at the roses in his mother’s basket. “Then I suppose I will remember for him.”

His mother was quiet for a moment before reaching up to touch his cheek. “My darling boy.”

William covered her hand with his. Some part of his heart might always be heavy when he thought of Algernon, but grief was no longer the only thing waiting for him.

Beyond the garden, the house had grown increasingly busy as servants hurried through the final preparations.