by Tuft, Karen
“As you see, and I thank God daily for that small kindness,” Lucas said.
“Kindness.” He chuckled. “Indeed. God’s kindness.”
“Mama and Father will want to know you’ve arrived.” Lucas signaled to the footman, but Simon forestalled him.
“There’s plenty of time for that, don’t you think? Come.” He gestured toward a small anteroom next to the main drawing room. “Let’s get reacquainted first, shall we?”
Once inside, Simon shut the door and leaned against it, shutting his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said. “I left Stamford rather early this morning, and I need a moment to get my bearings.”
What Simon meant, without saying it, was that he’d been reluctant to return home, not unlike Lucas had been, and had stayed in Stamford—barely twelve miles away—rather than continue the journey last evening. And judging by the redness of his eyes and his unsteadiness, he’d whiled away his time there drinking and who knew what else until the wee hours of the morning.
He’d at least found the wherewithal to wash and dress properly. There was no tavern stink about him. But he didn’t fool Lucas, and he wouldn’t fool the rest of the family either.
Lucas locked the door and placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Come and sit, before you slide to the floor. I’ll ring for some breakfast to be brought here. I haven’t eaten, so no one will be the wiser. You need food in you.”
Simon shook off Lucas’s hand. “I’m not in that bad of shape,” he said. He crossed to the nearest chair and sank into it with a groan. “And I don’t want any food.”
“Well, I do.” He stepped out into the corridor. “You—I don’t know your name, sorry,” he said to the same manservant who’d taken Simon’s things. “If you’d please fill two breakfast plates and bring them here. And keep this between us, if you will.”
“John, sir, and yes, sir.”
“Good man.” He went back into the anteroom, leaving it open the barest crack so he’d hear the man’s return. It wouldn’t do to have him juggling two plates on a tray while trying to get into a locked room.
“Heard you were back on English soil, y’know,” Simon said, his eyes still closed. “Word got round that you’d kept the Earl of Halford alive when he should have died. Very commendable.”
“He’d done the same for me before. It’s what soldiers do when they aren’t actually killing people.”
Simon croaked out a laugh at that, although Lucas hadn’t really intended it to be funny. “I suppose that’s true enough.”
“I should have called on you while I was in Town, Simon. I have no excuse, except to say I was looking after my friend, who was still rather unwell, and I—”
Simon waved his hand. “Enough, Lucas. I wasn’t in a mood to be called on by family, even by my soldier brother, or I’d have called on you myself.”
A subtle clearing of a throat at the door let Lucas know the manservant had arrived with the food. Lucas opened the door for him, and the man set the tray on the table in front of Simon before excusing himself.
“It smells awful,” Simon muttered, grimacing, his head falling back against the chair again.
“Nevertheless, it will help you get over what ails you.”
“It’ll only help me cast up my accounts on Mama’s carpet,” Simon said.
Lucas was hungry and not inclined to wait, so he picked up a knife and fork and began cutting into the generous slice of ham on his plate. “Here, start with some toast.” He handed a square of buttered toast to Simon, who nibbled on it gingerly. After Simon had eaten a few bites, his color began to look less gray, which boded well for the carpet. “Mama’s letter said you arrived here betrothed. I must say, I’m anxious to meet the young lady.”
Lucas stopped chewing.
“Not once did I hear any rumors of you being betrothed while you were in Town,” Simon added, taking another small bite of toast.
“I doubt I’m the sort of person London society spends much time gossiping about,” he said. He reminded himself he needed to act normal and not make assumptions about what Simon did or did not know. He sliced off more ham.
“That’s true, although, as your brother, I did attempt to find out about you a time or two. Curiosity, you know. When I did, it was mostly talk about your friend the earl’s surprise betrothal to that girl from the country, and that was that.”
Lucas began to breathe a little easier.
“At any rate,” Simon continued, reaching for another square of toast since he’d managed to eat the first square and keep it down. “I was much too busy with my own affairs”—he chuckled—“to worry all that much about yours. You must have returned from war eager to ensure your immortality by producing progeny to have found a willing bride so quickly, especially since you’re still a relatively young man. Now, James—he’s the one Mama ought to be carping at.” He sighed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say such things about Mama; I know she means well. But she keeps writing me these letters. Most of the time, I just ignore them. But James is thirty-one, devil take it. If anyone deserves to get letters from Mama reminding him of his duty, it should be he.”
“I think he’s inclined to pursue that route in the not-too-distant future, although he says he is too busy with professional duties to marry right at the moment.”
“That is news. Well, well. Any prospects? Lovely young ladies from Lincoln dying to marry a man who’s always busy with his so-called ‘professional duties’? James was always the one who seemed most keen on excitement, if you were to ask me, despite his intensity in school. I can hardly believe he spends his days molding away in a wig and ceremonial gown before a judge. It seems to go against his basic nature.”
Lucas smiled. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. And, no—no prospects as of yet, at least no one he’s mentioned.”
“Well, I’ll believe it when I see it when it comes to James.” He’d finished the second square of toast by this time. “You know, Lucas, I’m feeling somewhat better after your hounding me to eat the toast. I’ll try a few of those eggs and see how they sit.”
“Good.” Lucas scooped some eggs onto a plate for Simon. “And if all else fails, I’ll grab Mama’s decorative urn over by the window and have it over here in a trice.”
Simon turned to look in the direction of the urn, then grabbed his head with both hands and moaned.
“Shall I grab the urn?” Lucas asked, setting the eggs down just to be on the safe side.
“No, just give me a minute for the room to stop spinning. It might actually be an improvement for the urn if I were to use it though. I never could understand what Mama saw in the ugly thing.”
Lucas chuckled and handed the plate of eggs to Simon. Even in the aftermath of a night of carousing, Simon still managed to keep his wit. “When we’re done here, I’m taking you to your room so you can sleep. You can make your grand entrance this afternoon.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet. Many thanks, brother.”
Simon ate the eggs and successfully kept them down, then Lucas helped him circumvent the rest of the family and got him to his bedroom. “Sweet dreams, baby brother,” he said before shutting the door to Simon’s room.
Simon shot him a withering look.
Lucas was enjoying being home with his family. He really should have come sooner. He’d delayed only a few extra weeks, true, but he could feel his guilt over the matter returning to nag at him again.
He forced it back. Enough of guilt. And enough of feeling inferior to his brothers and their accomplishments. Lucas had made his choices. He could not undo them; his life was what it was. It was time for him to look to the future and choose again.
It was past time.
* * *
After sneaking Simon up to his bedroom so he could sleep off his inebriation, Lucas went to the breakfast room in search of Thomas and Isobel.
They were not there, however. “Sarah had a nightmare last night and was inconsolable,” Rebecca explained as she delicately separated
the yolk from her coddled egg and proceeded to eat the white part only. “She dreamt her mama and papa were fighting, and poor little Sarah would not believe them when they told her it was just a dream and that everything was all right.”
“I see,” Lucas said. And he did see—more than Rebecca herself did, for she’d been but twelve when Lucas had left for the army. She may have known about his and Isobel’s youthful attachment, but she would have assumed it was ancient history by now.
But the tension between Thomas and Isobel in the wake of Lucas’s return had been evident in both their faces. Little Sarah must have sensed the emotions of the adults, and it had given her nightmares, poor thing.
He pictured the little girl. His niece. She was the spitting image of her mother—delicate, blonde, and blue-eyed. The perfect little English rosebud. He was relieved to discover he did not feel the slightest prick of regret that she was not his and Isobel’s daughter.
Lucas made his way to the nursery and briefly introduced himself to Mrs. Wynn, who was busy with Isaac and Clara’s four children. The elder two were working on their letters, and the younger two stacked blocks and knocked them over, laughing and beginning the process all over again.
Thomas and Isobel were at the other side of the room. Isobel was seated in a child-sized chair at a child-sized table that Lucas remembered from his own days in the nursery, reading a story to Edmund and Sarah, who were seated on either side of her. Thomas sat in the window seat nearby, which was the only spot in the nursery that could accommodate Thomas’s height.
Isobel stopped reading when Lucas walked toward them.
“May I beg a moment of your time? Thomas? Isobel?” he asked in a low voice so as not to disturb the children at the other end of the nursery.
Isobel glanced at Thomas. “Of course,” Thomas replied. “Edmund, Sarah—Mama and I are going to speak to Uncle Lucas for a few minutes. We shall leave the book right here so Mama can finish the story when we return.”
The children looked at Lucas and then scampered off to join their cousins, little Sarah appearing to have gotten over her nightmare satisfactorily. Thomas and Isobel followed Lucas out into the corridor and then to a nearby room where they would have privacy while they conversed.
When they were all seated, Lucas spoke. “I believe it is time to clear the air,” he began. “Time to speak openly about the past so we may go forward with open hearts and clear consciences into the future.”
“I will start, then,” Isobel said.
“No, my dear, let me,” Thomas interrupted. “Lucas, I knew of your attachment to Isobel. I was twenty-nine and Father’s heir, and in my arrogance, I thought myself a more worthy match for her than you and didn’t hesitate to court her as a result. It was wrong of me, and I blamed myself when you left in bitterness and enlisted in the army. Every day over the long seven years you were in Spain, I expected a letter to arrive announcing your death. I think I became resentful to you over that guilt I felt—odd as it may seem.”
“It is my turn, Thomas, my dear,” Isobel said, laying her hand on Thomas’s arm. “I have always loved you dearly, Lucas. You know that. I even thought myself in love with you for a time. But you were always . . . braver . . . than I. I enjoyed our frolics here in the safety of the parks of Alderwood, but I think I always sensed that your soul was much more daring than mine. I longed for security and steadiness, and I quickly saw that Thomas had those qualities. I fell in love with him. Had I known the pain it would cause you, I would have done things much more differently. All the same, I do not believe I would have married you, dear though you were to me—for Thomas was and is the husband of my heart.”
“And while I was arrogantly proclaiming myself a more suitable match for Isobel back then,” Thomas added, “I will ruefully agree with Isobel that I am less inclined to face risk and challenge than you. I hope that doesn’t count against my manliness.”
“Oh, Thomas,” Isobel said. “You are such a dear man.”
Lucas nodded thoughtfully. Was it really just that simple? Now, in this moment, he could hear their words and understand and accept them. Seven years ago, he doubted he would have. They could have talked for hours, explaining themselves over and over, and he would not have heard what they were telling him.
“I was hurt by both of you,” he said. “I felt horribly betrayed. My home here at Alderwood no longer felt like my home with you here, married to Thomas. I think perhaps you are right, Isobel; I think there is an element of my character that longs for challenge, although I don’t think I realized it back then. Enlisting was a rash thing to do and demonstrates clearly a willingness to take risks. I could have gone back to Cambridge and simply kept my distance from Alderwood, but I set out to do something utterly dangerous. Perhaps I intended to make you all suffer. Perhaps I wanted you to await that letter that never arrived, Thomas. I do not know. By then, I was too busy learning how to stay alive to think about such things. When I arrived home this time, it was with hurt pride and nothing more.”
“I’m so glad to hear this, finally,” Isobel said, tears blossoming in her clear, blue eyes. “I told Thomas I felt I must write to you and explain that you were loved and wanted here at home, and he agreed. But you didn’t write back.”
“I misunderstood the reasons behind your writing,” Lucas said. “Let us leave it at that.”
She smiled and nodded, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “And then when you finally arrived home, it was such a shock to hear you announce your betrothal to Miss Fernley. We were all shocked at the news, quite frankly. She seemed so, I don’t know—excessively beautiful. It seemed utterly wrong somehow, and I’m afraid I felt a bit protective of you, perhaps even possessive. But as I have gotten to know her, I can see how loyal she is to those elderly cousins of hers, and she also seems to have the same ability to face challenges that you have. She is a better equal to you than I ever would have been.”
The children were knocking over the blocks and laughing, and Lucas gazed at them with fondness. “You have a beautiful family,” Lucas said. “Edmund and Sarah are fortunate to have you both. Perhaps one day, I will be as blessed as you are.”
“That day appears to be looming large on the horizon,” Thomas said.
“One can hope,” Lucas said. He stood. “And now I will leave you to finish reading your story to your children.”
“Thank you, Lucas,” Thomas said, rising to his feet and shaking Lucas’s hand before pulling him into a tight hug. “And welcome home, at last.”
Chapter 18
“That farmhouse of yours is going to need a woman’s touch now that repairs are underway,” Lady Thurlby said to Lavinia as she took her on a tour of Alderwood. She’d been going into detail about the responsibilities that would be Lavinia’s as mistress of her own household. “The girls and I would be only too willing to go with you into the village to look for fabrics and colors. Those men doing the repairs will slap on a coat of paint in some drab color they find at hand if we don’t act quickly. Paper-hangings, draperies, carpets . . .”
Furnishings for the house had moved near the top in priority. They would need beds and wardrobes and washstands and dishes and cooking utensils and tables and . . . the list went on and on. And they would need those things to begin arriving by next week.
Lucas met them on the landing as Lavinia and Lady Thurlby rounded the corner of the corridor. “There you both are. I’ve been looking for you.”
“We’ve been busy,” the viscountess said. “I have been instructing Lavinia on the management of a household. You need to sit down together sometime soon and talk about furniture for the farmhouse. There is much to be done before Primrose Farm becomes a home for the two of you, from what Thomas and James have told me.”
“I am always willing to set aside time for Lavinia, Mama,” Lucas said. “I am entirely at her disposal.”
The look he gave Lavinia melted her heart and a good deal of her resolve.
“Come,” he said, extending a
n arm for each of them. “Everyone is waiting.”
“Everyone?” Lavinia asked as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Waiting for what?”
“Goodness! Has Simon arrived? And without my knowing it,” the viscountess said, taking his other arm before they descended the stairway. “That bounder. It’s about time. One would think London was halfway across the globe considering how long it took my two wayward sons to arrive from there.”
“I apologize profusely for my own procrastination.”
“Apology accepted. But just barely.”
Lucas leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek, and Lavinia lost a little more of her heart to him.
Lavinia discovered when they reached the drawing room that “everyone” included the entire family, minus the children. Hannah, Delia, and Artie were also there.
Simon Jennings stood in the midst of them.
The first thing Lavinia noticed about him was his striking resemblance to James, although his coloring was darker than his brothers; Susan was the only other sibling who had the same dark hair as he. He also had an air of dissipation and ennui about him that robbed him of the vitality he should have had as a young gentleman, especially considering the fact that, according to Lucas, he was a year younger than Lavinia.
“Lavinia, may I present my youngest brother, Simon? Simon, my betrothed, Lavinia Fernley,” Lucas said.
Simon turned to acknowledge Lavinia and stopped, an arrested look on his face.
Lavinia attempted to ignore his expression and extended her hand to him. He bowed over it. “It is an honor to meet the lady who has captured my brother’s heart,” he said. “And such a rare beauty she is too.” He smiled—rather wickedly, it seemed to Lavinia.