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Rich’s gaze pierced him. “You realize of course that her previous engagement to him is nothing to prevent your own pursuit of her, should you so desire.”
“Yes, of course I know that!” Roland snarled.
“My, but she has got you in knots, hasn’t she?”
Deflated, Roland again dropped back into his chair. “Society might not care, but she does.”
“I’m sure you could persuade her to overcome her reticence,” said Rich, smiling into his glass.
But Roland knew better. “I’ve tried. But every time she looks at me, I know she sees him.” How could she not? She’d loved William. Perhaps it hadn’t been a passionate sort of love, but they’d been happy, content. What could he possibly offer her that would compare with her view of perfection? “I cannot compete with a dead man—a dead saint. I’ll never be William.”
“Perhaps you’re going about this the wrong way,” suggested Rich. “Of course you’ll never be William, but you can prove just as—”
“I’m already attempting to do so,” Roland cut in. “I’m trying to show her I’m just as capable as he was, just as worthy. The problem is that no matter what I achieve, I’m doomed to fall short of her expectations. I faced the fact that William was the better man long ago. Nothing I can do will ever change that.”
“What utter rubbish!” snorted Rich, earning himself a glare. “This has nothing to do with worthiness, man. If you would be so kind as to not interrupt, I had been going to say that you can prove just as appealing to her, but in a different way.”
Confused—and not a little chagrined—Roland nodded for him to continue.
“William was not the better man,” said his friend. “Your brother had his shortcomings, too. According to everything you’ve told me about him, he was overly pious, critical of everyone—which tells me he thought himself perfect, which in turn tells me he was an arrogant prat—and you complained constantly about how obsessive the man was. No doubt she saw those same qualities in him.”
“He wasn’t like that with her.”
Rich burst into laughter. “Of course he was! A man can hide his true nature for a little while, but eventually it begins to bleed out. In small ways, at first, but as time passes and he becomes more comfortable, he gets careless. Do you really think he was able to hide those attributes completely?” A grim smile thinned his mouth. “Believe me, he was the same man with her as he was with you and everyone else. She just chooses not to remember it. Death does that.”
“Then why is it I remember all of those things about him and she does not?”
“Because you now have a reason to remember them.”
Harriett. Roland’s heart began to pound.
Relentless as ever, Rich continued. “Until a few months ago, I seem remember you saying what a good man your brother was and how you’d never measure up. Even as angry as you were with him for how he manipulated you through his will, you thought him perfect. Out of respect, I chose not to remind you of all your previous complaints about him.”
Roland was as a man standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into its shadowy depths, dreading what he might see. He wanted Rich to stop, but he could not speak to silence him.
“When a person dies, those closest to them tend to ‘forget’ the more unpleasant aspects of the deceased’s personality,” continued Rich. “Even the most abused widow will bemoan the death of her husband and tell everyone what a lovely man he was, despite the fact that he drank heavily and beat her daily. In her grief, your Harriett has only done what’s natural—she has chosen to remember the good things about William and forget his flaws.”
“You’re right,” Roland said, finally managing to speak. “I stopped deluding myself about William long ago—but she will hate me if I begin tearing down her memory of him.”
Rich smiled. “I never said you should. In fact, it would indeed be most unwise for you to point out his flaws. What I am suggesting is that you show her.”
Roland did not bother hiding his confusion.
“Look,” said his friend, sighing. “God knows she has already seen the worst of you—it can only get better. Now you must show her your best. And I don’t mean by trying to compete with your brother’s memory.”
“Then how...?”
“Lord, but you can be thick sometimes! Do you think your Harriett ever had any fun with your brother? Do you think he ever made her laugh?”
Roland frowned. “William was not the sort to speak in jest.”
“Or laugh at one, as I recall you saying. According to all I know of him through you, your brother was never the sort to fritter away his time on anything not serious or meaningful.”
Rich was certainly right about that. William had never once set foot in a theater, had never attended the races, and had never been to White’s.
“Do you believe he ever told your Harriett she was beautiful or desirable?” continued Rich. “Do you think he ever made her feel special, like she was someone precious and beloved? Like he couldn’t live without her?”
The letters. Roland’s mind seized upon the memory. He knew where Harriett had fallen on his brother’s list of priorities. With the exception of his final missive, she’d been no more than an afterthought. Meeting her had been a convenient accident that had occurred before she’d ever had anyone with which to compare him. He’d never had to woo her, pursue her, or prove worthy of her affections. She’d never known he was anything less than he ought to be, that he’d never behaved toward her as a man madly in love.
