Oliver shook his head. ‘‘Tea at midmorning smacks of waste and profligacy,’’ he said, so smug that Lynch itched to smack him. ‘‘I ate my mush at daybreak, and will make it last until luncheon.’’
Over the rim of the cup, Lynch glanced at Sally and knew without question precisely what she was thinking. He turned his head so Oliver would not see his smile. I do believe, my dear Sal, that it would not be beyond you to tell my prig of a brother just where to put his mush, he thought. You would probably even provide a funnel.
He feared that Oliver must be wondering at the expression on his face, but his brother was staring at the tray Sally carried. The color rose up from his scrawny neck in blotches. ‘‘I cannot imagine that Lady Lynch would ever permit someone she cannot know to be handling our silver!’’
‘‘Good Lord, Oliver, it’s just that old teapot even I remember,’’ Lynch said, stung into retort. ‘‘I hardly think Sally will . . . will stick it up her skirt and trot to the pawnshop!’’
‘‘That is precisely what I mean!’’ Oliver replied. ‘‘We have had years and years of order and serenity and now you are back one morning with . . . with—heaven knows who this woman is—and things are going to ruin! I am going downstairs directly to tell Mama to count her—my—silverware carefully!’’
Sally gasped. Without a word she picked up the teacup on the tray and dumped it over his brother’s head. Oliver leaped to his feet, his hand raised, but Lynch was on his feet as well, and grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘‘I wouldn’t,’’ he said.
‘‘But she poured tea on me!’’
‘‘I don’t blame her,’’ Lynch replied. ‘‘You’re dashed lucky this isn’t the Middle Ages and it wasn’t hot tar! How dare you accuse her of having designs on the family silver?’’
Oliver looked at them both, his eyebrows pulled close together, his face in a scowl. ‘‘I’m going to talk to Mother about the wisdom of houseguests at Christmas,’’ he said primly as he left the room.
Sally stared after him, then looked down at the empty cup in her hand. Lynch smiled at her and sat down. ‘‘You should have a little charity, Miss Partlow,’’ he said. ‘‘Didn’t you tell me only yesterday that it was high time I forgave my brother?’’
He decided that she must not have realized what she was doing, because she sank down beside him on the bed. ‘‘Perhaps I was hasty,’’ she amended. ‘‘I hadn’t met him yet.’’ Lynch shouted with laughter. After a long moment, she smiled, if only briefly. She stood up then, as if aware of him in his nightshirt. ‘‘He may be right, Captain,’’ she said as she replaced both cups on the tray and went to the door. ‘‘I really don’t have much countenance, do I?’’
‘‘Probably not,’’ he agreed, in perfect charity with her, although he was not certain that she appreciated the fact. ‘‘It doesn’t follow that the matter is disagreeable.’’ To his utter delight, she made a face at him as she left the room.
He lay back down, hands behind his head, content to think of Sally, when she stuck her head in the room again. ‘‘Your mother said most particularly that you are not to do what you are doing now! She wants your escort to the vicarage this afternoon.’’
‘‘Shrew,’’ he said mildly. ‘‘When am I to have the nap I so richly deserve, after nine months of watch and watch about on the blockade?’’
Sally Partlow sighed and put her hand on her hip, which only made him want to grab her, toss her down beside him, and abandon naps forevermore. ‘‘Captain, I believe that one must rise, before one can consider the next rest as a nap.’’
To his relief, Oliver was gone when Lynch made his appearance in the breakfast room. The table was covered with material and dolls, dolls large and small, with baby-fine hair of silk thread, and abundant yarn hair. Sally was diligently embroidering a smile onto a blank face, and even Tom was occupied, pulling nankeen breeches onto a boy mannikin. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed in concentration, his mother—who to his knowledge had never plied a needle in her life—pushed the last bit of cotton wadding into a disembodied leg.
He kissed her cheek, and cleared a little spot for himself at the table, which only brought a protest from Sally, and the quiet admonition of his mother to please eat his breakfast standing up at the sideboard. He didn’t wish to spill eggs or tea on the dolls, did he?
Mystified at the doll factory on the table, he did as he was told. ‘‘Is this one of Oliver’s cottage industries?’’ he asked finally, when he had finished and sat himself at the table.
‘‘La, no,’’ his mother said, as she attached a leg to a comely doll with yarn ringlets. ‘‘Every year he complains when I ask for a few shillings to make dolls for the orphanage. He can be wearing, at times.’’
He leaned closer to her, wishing with all his heart that he had come home sooner. ‘‘I can change things for you now, Mother,’’ he said.
If he expected to see relief in her eyes, he was doomed to disappointment. With a few expert stitches, she concluded the limb attachment and picked up another leg. ‘‘I suppose Oliver is onerous at times, son, but do you know, his nipfarthing ways at my expense have quite brought out a side of me I never knew.’’ She looked around the table and Lynch could see nothing in her face but contentment. ‘‘When I think how little I used to do with much, and now how much I do with little, it fair amazes me!’’ She patted his arm, and then handed him an empty leg and pushed the stuffing closer. ‘‘And I owe Oliver this revelation of character.’’
‘‘I . . . I suppose I never thought of it that way, Mother,’’ he said, picking up the stuffing. He saw with a frown that his fingers were too large to make any headway on the leg. To his relief, Sally came to the rescue, moving her chair closer until her glorious hair touched his cheek as she expertly worked the stuffing in place with her own slim fingers. I’m in love, he thought simply, as he breathed deep of her fragrance—probably nothing more than soap and water—and tried to think when any woman had stirred him as completely as this one. The deuce of it was, he didn’t think she had the slightest idea of her effect on him.
The thought niggled at the back of his brain all morning as he sat at the table and brought his mother up to date on twenty-two years of his life. He had no need to enlarge upon his experiences, because they were vivid enough with war, shipwreck, illness—which set Sally to sniffling, even though she heatedly denied it when he teased her—salvages, and exotic ports as his topics. Before he brought his recitation to a close, even Simpson and Cook had joined them around the table.
‘‘The blockade is the least pleasant duty of all, I believe,’’ he temporized.
‘‘We will have it, too, son, since you have told us everything else,’’ his mother said.
‘‘No!’’ he exclaimed, rather louder than he had intended. Sally looked at him in surprise. ‘‘It’s . . . it’s not worth the telling.’’
He watched his mother gather the dolls together and motion to Tom to put them in the pasteboard box Simpson provided. ‘‘And now the Admirable is in dry dock and I find myself in a strange position for a seafaring man.’’
‘‘On land and hating it?’’ Sally asked, her voice soft. She hadn’t stirred far from his side, but had continued to work on the doll in her lap.
Twenty-four hours ago, he would have agreed with her, but now he could not say. ‘‘Let us say, on land and not certain where to go from here,’’ he told her, ‘‘or even what to do.’’ He was deeply conscious of the fact that he was aware of every breath she took, so close there to him.
‘‘Then that makes two of us,’’ Sally murmured. She put down the doll. ‘‘Captain Lynch, do you ever wish, just once, that you could be sure of things?’’
He shrugged. ‘‘Life’s uncertain,’’ he told her. ‘‘I suppose that is what I have learned.’’
‘‘Not that it is good?’’ she asked. ‘‘Or at least satisfactory on occasion?’’
‘‘That has not been my experience, Miss Partlow,’’ he said, his voice sharp. ‘‘
If it has been yours—and I cannot see how, considering your own less-than-sanguine circumstances—then rejoice in it.’’
To his shame, Sally leaped up from the table as though seeking to put real distance between them as fast as she could. If he could have snatched his spiteful words from the air, crammed them back in his mouth again, and swallowed them, he would have, but as it was, Sally only stood by the window, her head down, as far away as the moon.
‘‘That was poorly done, son,’’ his mother murmured.
‘‘I told you I had changed, Mother.’’ Where were these words coming from? he asked himself in anguish.
‘‘Not for the better, apparently.’’
The room was so hot, he wondered if he had been wise to order more coal. ‘‘Excuse me, please,’’ he said as he left the table.
He kicked himself mentally until he passed through the copse and could no longer see the dower house. In his mind he could still see the calm on Sally’s face, and the trouble in her eyes. It takes a thoroughly unpleasant customer to tread on a woman’s dignity, Lynch, he told himself, and you’ve just trampled Sally’s into the dust. Too bad the Celerity’s carronade didn’t belch all over you, instead of her uncle. She’d certainly have had a better Christmas.
He wanted to cry, but he wasn’t sure that he could ever stop if he started, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and walked until he looked around in surprise, the hair rising on his neck.
He stood in the orchard, barren now of leaves, and any promise of fruit, the branches just twisted sticks. How does it turn so beautiful with pink blossoms in the spring? he wondered. I have been so long away from land and the passage of seasons. He closed his eyes, thinking of summer in the orchard and then fall, especially the fall twenty-two years ago when two brothers had squared off and shot at each other.
Why did I let him goad me like that? he thought. Why did I ever think that his fiancée preferred me, a second son, greener than grass, unstable as water in that way of fourteen-year-olds?
He stood a moment more in thought, and then was aware that he was not the orchard’s only visitor. He knew it would be Oliver, and turned around only to confirm his suspicion. ‘‘Does it seem a long time ago, brother?’’ he asked, hoping that his voice was neutral.
Oliver shook his head. ‘‘Like yesterday.’’ He came closer. ‘‘Did you mean to kill me?’’
I was cruel only minutes ago, so what’s the harm in honesty, Lynch wondered. ‘‘Yes. I’m a better aim now, though.’’
Oliver smiled. ‘‘My pistol didn’t fire.’’
‘‘I thought as much. And then you shot yourself later, didn’t you?’’
His brother nodded. ‘‘I wanted to make sure you never returned.’’
‘‘It worked.’’
They both smiled this time. Lynch noticed that Oliver was shivering. ‘‘Your cloak’s too thin for this weather,’’ he said, fingering the heavy wool of his own uniform cloak. ‘‘Oliver, why in God’s name do you live so cheap? Is the estate to let?’’
He didn’t think Oliver would answer. ‘‘No! It pleases me to keep a tight rein on things,’’ he said finally. ‘‘The way Father did.’’
‘‘Well, yes, but Father lit the house at night and even heated it,’’ Lynch reminded him.
‘‘I control this estate.’’
To Lynch, it seemed an odd statement. He waited for his brother to say more, but the man was silent.
They walked together out of the orchard and Lynch wondered what he was feeling, strolling beside the person he had hated the most in the world for twenty-two years. ‘‘You ruined my life, Oliver,’’ he said as a preamble to the woes he intended to pour out on the skinny, shabby man who walked beside him.
Oliver startled him by stopping to stare. ‘‘Michael, you’re worth more than I am! Don’t deny it. I’ve checked the Funds. You’ve done prodigious well at sea. You aren’t ruined.’’
‘‘Yes, but—’’
‘‘And you don’t have a wife who is so boring that you must take deep breaths before you walk into any room she is inhabiting. And someone damned unfeeling enough to . . . to drop her whelps before they’re big enough to fend for themselves!’’
‘‘I doubt that Amelia ever intended to miscarry,’’ Lynch said, startled, and wondering if now he had finally heard everything.
‘‘And the deuce of it is, brother, I cannot unburden myself of her and take another wife who might get me an heir!’’
Dumbfounded, Lynch could think of no response to such a harsh declaration, beyond the thought that if Amelia Lynch had been a horse with a broken leg and not a wife with an uncooperative womb, Oliver could have shot her. He had the good sense not to mention it. ‘‘No heir,’’ was all he could say, and it sounded stupid.
Oliver turned on him. ‘‘Oh, I have an heir,’’ he declared, ‘‘a by-blow got from the ostler’s daughter at the public house, for all the good that does anyone. Naturally he cannot inherit. There you are, damn you, free to roam the world, tied to nothing and no one. As things stand now, you will inherit this estate.’’
As they walked on, Lynch felt a great realization dawning on him. It was so huge that he couldn’t put it into words at first. He glanced at his brother, feeling no anger at him now, but only the most enormous pity and then the deepest regret at his own wasted time.
‘‘Brother, can it be that we have been envying each other all these years?’’
‘‘I doubt it,’’ Oliver snapped, but his face became more thoughtful.
‘‘You were the oldest son and successor to the title, and you won Amelia’s affection—my God, but I wanted her then—and Father’s love,’’ Lynch said. ‘‘Didn’t you get what you wanted?’’
Oliver sighed. ‘‘I discovered after six months that Amelia only loves lap dogs. Father never loved anyone. And Mama, who used to be such a scatterbrain, has turned into the most . . . the most . . .’’
‘‘. . . respected and wise woman in the district,’’ Lynch concluded, smiling at the irony of it all. ‘‘You and Father broke her of bad habits out of your own meanness, didn’t you? And she became someone worth more than all of us. That must’ve been a low blow.’’
‘‘It was,’’ Oliver said with some feeling. ‘‘And look at you! Damned if you aren’t a handsome big fellow. I’ve been ill used.’’
The whole conversation was so unbelievable that Lynch could only walk in silence for some minutes. ‘‘So for all these years, you’ve either been wishing me dead, or wishing to change places. And I’ve been doing the same thing,’’ Lynch said, not even attempting to keep the astonishment from his voice. ‘‘What a pair we are.’’
If it weren’t so sad, he would have laughed. Father sentenced me to the sea, and I was the lucky one, Lynch thought. I’ve not been tied to a silly, barren woman, forced to endure years with that martinet who fathered us, or tethered to an estate when just maybe I might have wished to do something else. And Oliver thinks I am handsome. I wonder if Sally does?
He took his brother by the arm, which startled the man into raising both his hands, as though in self-defense. ‘‘Settle down, Oliver. I have an idea. Tell me how you like it.’’ He hesitated only a moment before throwing his arm around the smaller man, enveloping him in the warmth of his cloak. ‘‘I’ve given some serious thought to emigrating to the United States. I mean, since I refuse to die and oblige you that much, at least if I became a citizen of that nation, I certainly couldn’t inherit a title, could I? Who would the estate devolve upon?’’
‘‘Our cousin Edward Hoople.’’
‘‘Hoople.’’ Lynch thought a moment, then remembered a man somewhat near his own age.
‘‘Yes! He has fifteen or twenty children at least—or it seems that way when he troubles us with a visit—and as many dogs,’’ Oliver grumbled. ‘‘But I’d much rather he had this estate than you.’’
‘‘Done then, brother. I’ll emigrate,’’ Lynch said. ‘‘At least, I’ll do it if I sur
vive another year on the blockade, which probably isn’t too likely. My luck has long run out there. That satisfy you?’’
‘‘I suppose it must,’’ Oliver said. He looked toward Lynch Hall. ‘‘Do you want to put it in writing?’’
Lynch shook his head. ‘‘Trust me, Oliver. I’ll either die or emigrate. I promise.’’
His brother hesitated, then nodded, and hesitated again. ‘‘I suppose you can come to luncheon,’’ he said, his reluctance almost palpable. ‘‘I usually only have a little bread and milk.’’
‘‘I’ll pass, Oliver. I think I’ve promised to take some dolls to the vicarage for Mama.’’
Oliver sighed. ‘‘That woman still manages to waste money!’’
Lynch surprised himself by kissing Oliver on the forehead. ‘‘Yes, indeed. She must have spent upwards of twenty shillings on all those dolls for orphans. What can she have been thinking? Tell you what I will put in writing. I’ll take care of Mother from now on, and relieve you of that onerous burden and expense.’’ He looked at Oliver closely, trying to interpret his expression. ‘‘Unless you think you’ll miss all that umbrage.’’
‘‘No, no,’’ Oliver said hastily, then paused. ‘‘Well, let me think about it.’’
They had circled back to the orchard again. Lynch released his brother, and put out his hand. ‘‘What a pair we are, Oliver.’’
Oliver shook his hand. ‘‘You promise to die or emigrate.’’
‘‘I promise. Happy Christmas.’’
Oliver turned to walk away, then looked back. ‘‘You’re not going to marry that chit with the red hair, are you? It would serve you right to marry an object of charity.’’
The only objects of charity are you and I, brother, Lynch thought. ‘‘That would please you if I married her, wouldn’t it?’’ he asked. ‘‘You’d really think I got what I deserved.’’
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