Page 15 of The Summer Country

Chapter Four

Christ Church, Barbados

February 1812

“Do we always set out a banquet for breakfast, Robert?” Charles pulled out a chair, wishing that the legs wouldn’t scrape so against the wood floor. The sound was like a pick being driven into his skull.

But it was the smells that were the worst: sliced cold beef, congealing on its plate; fresh ham, studded with cloves; peppers, swimming in brine; and, above it all, the pungent, unmistakable smell of pickled fish.

What in the devil had been in that punch last night?

Charles’s little brother was already seated at the head of the table, booted feet propped up on the neighboring chair, a plate in front of him weighed down with beef, ham, fish, and something stewed that Charles couldn’t name and didn’t want to try.

“You need something in your stomach before you ride the fields.” Robert speared a piece of rare beef. Charles tried not to wince as Robert let it dangle from his fork. “This isn’t London.”

“No,” said Charles mildly. “It’s warmer, for one.”

Someone had placed a variety of beverages at the center of the table. Charles bypassed the decanter of Madeira and the bumper of hock negus and made straight for the porcelain coffeepot. It wasn’t the silver coffeepot, the one they put out for company, but the one he remembered from his childhood, a conical thing of Chinese porcelain, with a dragon’s head for a spout. If one squinted at it in just the right way, the chip on the dragon’s mouth looked almost like a tooth.

Charles could picture his mother’s hand on the curiously shaped handle. But nothing else. Just a pale hand in a sleeve edged with lace.

“All of this . . .” Charles poured himself a cup of coffee, black, without sugar. “It’s a bit much for two bachelors, isn’t it?”

Robert glanced sideways at him. “Preaching economy, brother?”

Robert’s eyes were brown, like their mother’s. Like the little boy, still in skirts, who used to follow Charles around on his expeditions, stumbling over his own chubby legs. It was hard now, to see that boy in Robert. He was tall as Charles, impeccably turned out in well-tailored riding togs.

It wasn’t that Charles had expected to find the same adoring little brother he had left all those years ago, not really. Or maybe just a little. But he hadn’t been prepared for the hostility his brother did little to hide.

Charles took a cautious sip of his coffee, waiting for it to burn up to his brain. “From what I’ve seen, economy does seem to be called for.”

“Would you have us live like those poor beasts in St. Andrew, grubbing for a few roots?” Robert forked up something pungent and stewed. Charles looked away. “It all gets used, one way or another. The house servants would be up in arms if you stint at table. They think of the excess as theirs.”

“They might prefer more on their own account, I should think.” Bypassing the meats, Charles selected a plain roll and a sweetmeat of candied ginger. He took a careful bite of the latter, feeling the sugar turn to acid on his tongue, the bite of the gingerroot beneath.

“It’s not about the food.” When Charles looked at him blankly, Robert set down his fork with a clatter. “It’s about their rights. The house servants have a right to the leavings at table. They eat it; they trade in it. It sets them above the others.”

He said it as though it ought to make perfect sense. Charles wished he felt clearer headed; his night at Beckles had sucked him dry. “Wouldn’t a full stomach be preferable to an empty honor?”

“Tell that to any courtier at Versailles.”

“We saw what happened at Versailles,” said Charles soberly. “And after.”

Robert swung his feet down to the floor, looking full at his brother for the first time, and Charles was struck by the force of his resentment. “Do you want someone to put our heads on the block? Then go on and meddle with the way things are done. Never mind that you haven’t been here. I’m sure you can tell us all about everything we’ve been doing wrong.”

“Robert—”

Whatever Charles might have said to placate his brother was lost, interrupted by a servant bearing a note on a silver tray. It was written on cream paper, sealed with red wax. Inside were only three lines.

“From Beckles?”

Charles looked up sharply.

Robert shrugged, tilting back in his chair. “I recognized the seal.”

There was something about his studied nonchalance that made Charles wish the note in his hand to perdition. Carefully, he said, “Miss Beckles has invited me to ride with her.”

“That’s quick work.” The derision in Robert’s voice could have stripped the painted paper from the wall. “Three days home and you’ve already secured an heiress. I wish you both very happy.”