Breakfast at Midnight

by Fiona MacFarlane

CHAPTER SEVEN

  An Unwelcome Arrival

  Archibald George Brearly, or ‘George,’ as he preferred to be called, stood defiantly in the door-way of Rosewood House’s breakfast room, with a large brown carpetbag in one hand, and a felt hat in the other. As he surveyed the mute occupants of the room before him, his lips parted into a smile.

  ‘Michael!’ he eventually exclaimed. ‘It’s me! Your favourite brother!’

  ‘What are you talking about, George?’ Michael retorted. ‘How can you be my favourite brother when you’re the only one I have?’

  ‘Because the odds are in my favour,’ George replied, before carelessly dropping his hat and bag on the floor beside him. ‘Now, enough of this sparkling repartee. Come here and give me a hug!’

  Michael’s face was still rigid with displeasure, and far from embracing his brother, he stood unmoved on the spot. Both hands remained defiantly in his pockets.

  ‘Will you not even shake my hand?’ George asked, presumedly impervious to the frosty reception he was receiving. ‘Oh well. I can only imagine that you’re too overcome with the joy of seeing me to respond to my conciliatory gesture.’ He calmly redirected his attention to Louisa. ‘And how are you, Louey?’ George inquired irreverently. ‘I can see you’re looking as provocatively fetching as ever.’

  ‘George,’ Louisa began, compressing her lips, ‘what an agreeable surprise this is.’ The cold look in her eyes, however, declared the opposite. ‘I trust you are tolerably well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, considering that I had to walk here from the ferry terminal. Two miles over muddied terrain, although with this luggage it felt like five. I’m as stiff as an old horse. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m not the sort of person to cry, ‘Woe is me! Woe is me!’ It wasn’t all bad. I saw some very choice scenery on the way, and had an awfully interesting encounter with Mr Periman’s dog from down the road. See these rips?’ he said, pointing to several jagged tears in his trousers, ‘evidence of my close encounter with death. I was actually hoping for some cheap sympathy,’ George added, after no-one answered him, ‘but I suppose…’

  ‘George,’ Michael interrupted, ‘what, may I ask, are you doing here?’

  A bemused George looked from Michael to Louisa, then from Louisa to Michael. ‘Well I thought that was fairly apparent, you duffer. I’ve come to atone for my sins. I therefore prostrate myself before you, and offer you my humblest apologies for missing your wedding.’

  ‘What are you talking about, George?’ Michael growled. ‘I do wish you would talk some sense.’

  Before George could reply to this, Frances emerged from behind her aunt. Her curiosity had finally got the better of her, and she felt it beneath her dignity to be hidden from view, whether it was in her best interests or not.

  ‘Ah,’ George breathed, ‘this must be the unlucky lady.’ He stepped forward, and in a most gentlemanly and chivalrous manner, bowed to her. ‘George Brearly, at your service,’ he smiled. ‘I heartily welcome you to the Brearly tribe.’ He then playfully saluted her, before turning towards Michael. ‘For shame,’ he said, regarding his brother with a rather dark look, ‘you didn’t tell me that your bride was this beautiful.’

  ‘George,’ Michael said sharply, ‘what in heaven’s name are you talking about? As usual you’ve got everything wrong. I daresay you’re talking about the wedding. This young lady is not my wife, and I’m not getting married until the middle of February. What month is this? It’s December.’

  ‘Do not waste your breath, Michael,’ Louisa ventured. ‘It will not make any difference to him.’

  George looked at Michael with some perplexity. ‘By Jove!’ he cried. ‘I could have sworn the wedding was last week. Are you quite sure about the date? Perhaps you should consult your diary.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Michael interposed, ‘but I think I know the date of my own wedding. It’s not something I’m likely to forget in a hurry is it?’

  ‘Oh you’d be surprised,’ George replied. ‘It happened to a friend of mine last year. He went away for a few days and forgot that he was marrying his lady-love on the Saturday. He was the object of ridicule for months, although as I seem to recall, he never was too overbright.’

  ‘George,’ Michael cut in impatiently, ‘must you always be talking?’

  ‘Well, not as a general rule, but it’s something to do, isn’t it?’

  George caught sight of Frances again, and faltered under her intense scrutiny. For ten seconds at least he was lost for words, something of a record for George Brearly. He ran a hand through his hair then instinctively attempted to loosen his necktie. His necktie, however, was in one of his pockets (having been discarded during his gruelling walk to his brother’s residence) and having nothing now to adjust, he undid the top button on his shirt instead. While he was doing this, he smilingly evaluated his pretty new acquaintance. He noted with exultation that the young woman was reciprocating his gesture.

  Frances had every reason to smile. Ever since she had set eyes on the handsome George Brearly, her heart had been aflutter with silent admiration. Like his older brother, George Brearly was blessed with a slender statuesque physique and distinguished face, but that was where the brotherly similarities ended. George’s hair was a lighter shade of brown, he had darker, more expressive eyes, was clean shaven, and at a glance, was more fashionably dressed. His mouth was somewhat larger and fuller than Michael’s, and Frances suspected that the creases around George’s mouth had been gently forged by years of smiles and merriment. It was an immensely likeable face and Frances could have admired it for hours.

  ‘So this isn’t your wife then?’ George asked.

  ‘No,’ Michael declared brusquely.

  Michael had witnessed the mutual attraction between Frances and George, and it alarmed him considerably. He knew he was powerless to prevent their meeting, but he was not powerless from keeping them together. He decided at once to make the introductions, and have his brother removed as soon as possible.

  ‘George,’ he began coolly, ‘allow me to introduce you to Miss Frances Norwood. Miss Norwood is Louisa’s niece. Miss Norwood, this here is George, my younger brother.’ His lip curled as he uttered George’s name.

  ‘I am four years younger, I confess,’ George acknowledged to Frances in a confiding tone, ‘but just between you and me, what I lack in years, I make up for in intelligence, an awfully good sense of humour, devastating good looks and twenty eight years of maturity.’

  ‘And modesty,’ Frances added.

  George chortled. ‘Well said, Miss Norwood. Well said indeed.’ He gave her an audacious wink.

  Michael cast Louisa a significant look, then turned towards his brother. ‘Well, don’t you want to know who I’m marrying?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ George conceded, ‘but whom-ever she is I pity her greatly.’

  ‘Oh hush, George,’ Louisa warned.

  ‘I’m marrying Agnes Wentworth. I assume you remember her.’

  The light quickly extinguished from George’s eyes and he stopped laughing. ‘Of course I remember Agnes,’ he admitted a little awkwardly. ‘I grew up with her. I think I even teased her if I remember correctly. I made her life a misery.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Michael replied. ‘She hasn’t forgotten it either.’

  An indignant George made no comment.

  At this point, Louisa, sensing the impending unpleasantness, took a firm hold of Frances’s arm and led her to the door. ‘I think it best if we removed ourselves to the drawing room,’ Louisa declared to Frances in an undertone.

  Frances thought her aunt’s plan was a very prudent one, and allowed herself to be escorted out of the room.

  As soon as the door had been closed, the battle between the two brothers began in earnest…