My Brother's Bride

by Rachael Anderson

  “I don’t know,” said Brigston. “He seemed to enjoy making sport of his failings.”

  “Yes, but making sport of one’s failings is different than allowing oneself to be vulnerable. It’s an easy thing to joke about one’s inability to distinguish a Michelangelo from a Donatello but more difficult to admit an insecurity or fear.”

  “You seem to have no trouble doing so,” noted Brigston with a teasing lilt to his voice.

  She smiled even though she didn’t deserve the praise, if indeed it was praise. “I did not share everything with him. We are both guilty on that score.”

  His expression became suspect. “I find that hard to believe. You have always seemed very open to me.”

  “Yes, well…” Abby bit her lip to keep her thoughts from stumbling out as they often did with him. What would he say if he could hear them? You’re different than your brother. I find it easier to speak with you than I did with him. Even though I haven’t known you long, I feel a deeper connection to you.

  She could never speak openly about that.

  “Well…?” he prodded.

  “There is still much you do not know about me, my lord—much Jasper did not know about me as well.”

  To her surprise, he smiled. “Never say you enjoy mingling with sheep as well as cows.”

  It felt good to chuckle about something, even if that something was livestock. “Chickens too, though they don’t mind nearly as well.”

  Brigston laughed, then halted her progress with a hand on her arm. Even through her gown, she could feel the warmth of his touch. It made her skin tingle. “I suppose there is much I do not know about you, but that’s only because we haven’t been acquainted for long. Why not stay a bit longer so I can say there is only a little I do not know about you?”

  She stared into his blue-gray eyes, feeling mesmerized. How she yearned to say she would stay, especially if it meant more afternoons spent like this.

  But did she truly want that? Only minutes ago, she’d been ready to flee and put as much distance between her and Oakley as possible.

  Abby blinked and looked away, taking a deep breath to calm her skittish heart. In a small voice she said, “I must go as soon as I am able, my lord.”

  Silence met her words. When it stretched on for a while, she looked back at him and was disheartened to see sadness in his expression. It weakened her resolve. “I’ll return to visit if you and your mother would wish it.”

  “Of course we’d wish it.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and began walking once more, pointing at a grove of trees in the distance. “When we were lads, Jasper decided we should build a tree fort in one of those trees so we could keep a lookout for pirates. I thought it a great plan, so we scrounged up some nails and a hammer, pried some boards from an old shed, cut them down, and nailed them into an unlucky ash tree. They made an adequate ladder, but as we climbed higher, we realized we didn’t have enough wood to build a platform. So we decided to scavenge more from the chicken coop, thinking the large birds couldn’t fit through the narrow openings. We were wrong, of course, and I’m sure you can imagine the chaos that ensued.”

  The image of two boys chasing chickens through the yard made Abby grin. How she wished she’d known the Campbell boys back then. They would have made wonderful chums.

  “If Jasper were here today, he’d insist that it had been my idea to filch the wood from the coop, even though it had been his. In the end, though, it really didn’t matter. We both lost dinner on account of it, though Mother brought us some food after our nurse had retired for the evening. She had a soft spot for us boys.”

  “I can well imagine,” said Abby. It felt good to speak of Jasper in this way, to smile and laugh and learn something more about her late husband. This, she thought, is how people should be mourned.

  Her father never spoke to Abby about her mother. Whenever she’d pressed him for any information, he’d find a way to quiet her many questions, either by leaving the room or redirecting the conversation. It broke Abby’s heart.

  She’d decided long ago that people shouldn’t be forgotten. Their lives should be celebrated, their stories told, and their memory made to live on through family and friends.

  “Will you tell me more?” she pleaded.

  Brigston complied, beginning another story as they continued the stroll down the beach. She listened with rapture to the pleasing timbre of his voice and delighted in the feel of his arm beneath her hand as he further introduced the mischievous boy who had become her husband.

  NOT FOR THE first time that morning, Morgan glanced out the study’s window, hoping for a glimpse of Abby. Had she left earlier than usual? Had he somehow missed her? Was she already out and about, combing the beach on foot—or worse, horseback? He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d ignored his wishes and managed to convince a groom to let her ride. Though he’d made his opinion clear, she hadn’t agreed to comply.

  He stood and walked to the window, peering out across the grounds. Perhaps he should take a ride down the beach to be sure. She was probably feeling lonely and restless again.

  After their discussion yesterday, Morgan realized he needed to make an effort to seek her out. He tried to tell himself it was only for her benefit, but deep down he knew better. Only an hour with her yesterday had brightened his day considerably. He wanted it to stay bright.

  A knock interrupted his surveillance, and a petite maid bustled into the room carrying a tea tray—one he hadn’t requested.

  Morgan quirked a brow. “What’s this?”

  “Monsieur Roch asked me to bring it up, milord,” she said. “I’m to tell you Lady Jasper made the scones ‘erself.” The maid’s lips twitched into half a smile.

  “Indeed?” Morgan peered down at the tray and nearly laughed out loud. The scones were flat, misshapen, and much too brown. Apparently, Abby had walked to the kitchen instead of the beach this morning.

  “Monsieur Roch didn’t want you thinkin’ they were his doin’,” added the maid.

  Morgan picked up one of the scones, noticing how dense it felt compared to his cook’s usually light and feathery ones.

  “Lady Jasper made these?” he asked.

  “Aye, milord,” said the maid. “She’s askin’ to ‘elp with dessert also.”

  Ah, thought Morgan, understanding dawning. That was the reason Monsieur Roch sent up a tray of inedible scones. He wanted Morgan to do something about Abby before she brought ruin upon the dessert as well.

  He grinned. “Please give Lady Jasper my compliments. I’m sure I will enjoy these scones with the greatest pleasure.”

  “Yes, milord.” She curtsied, but before she could scamper from the room, Morgan added, “You needn’t return for the tray. I will bring it down once I’ve finished.”

  “Thank you, milord.” The obvious relief in her tone and expression made Morgan’s smile widen. She could now return to Monsieur Roch having accomplished the task he’d given her.

  After the door closed, Morgan examined the scones again. More out of curiosity than hunger, he slathered jam on one and took a tentative bite. The flavor wasn’t bad, or perhaps the jam simply masked it, but he had to practically gnaw on the thing before he was able to swallow it. Without a second thought, he tossed the remaining scones into the fireplace and scooped up the tray.

  When he entered the kitchen, Abby’s back was partially to him, so she didn’t immediately see him. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she whipped something in a bowl. She paused to lift the spoon, only to frown at the white liquid dripping from it.

  “Are you certain this will thicken into a cream?” she asked.

  A flash of irritation crossed Monsieur Roch's face until he spotted Morgan and seemed to think better of it. He managed a patient tone in his accented French. “It takes time, my lady.”

  Morgan stifled a chuckle as Abby examined another spoonful of the liquid. “I’ve been whipping it for several minutes, but it doesn’t seem even a little thicker to me.
Have I forgotten to add something?”

  “No,” said the cook in clipped tones.

  Morgan stepped forward and leaned in close. “If your arm is tired—”

  Abby jumped, and what liquid remained on the spoon splattered across Morgan’s face. She spun around, her eyes growing wide with horror when she saw what she’d done.

  He wiped a dab from his nose and tasted it. “A little more sugar, perhaps?”

  “Brigston! I’m so dreadfully sorry.” She dropped the spoon into the bowl and grabbed a rag from a nearby wash basin, dabbing it across his face.

  “Not that rag!” cried the cook. “It was only just used to mop the floors.”

  Abby dropped it as though it had burned her, and Morgan tried not to cringe at the thought of filthy water coating his face.

  Monsieur Roch retrieved a clean rag and held it out to him, appearing apologetic. He flicked another irritated glance at Abby before returning to his work.

  As Morgan wiped the cream from his face, he wondered what Abby would do or say next. Offer another fumbled apology? Make her excuses and flee? Pretend the incident never happened and return to her labors? He never knew what to expect from her.

  Her face scarlet, she cleared her throat and lifted her adorably determined chin. “You are most welcome, my lord.”

  He raised a brow. “For what, my lady?”

  “I have heard that cream does wonders for one’s complexion, and it seems the rumors are correct. Your skin appears much… creamier.”

  Morgan was hard pressed not to laugh, especially when several snickers sounded throughout the room. “Is that so?”

  She nodded with conviction.

  “How interesting.” He examined the contents of the bowl, then dipped his finger into the liquid. “I would like to see the results for myself. You don’t mind, do you, my lady?” He ran his finger down her nose, not waiting for an answer. To her credit, she didn’t flinch or shy away.

  “Does it need to sit a while?” he asked.

  “Only a second or two,” came her response.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult not to laugh, but Morgan was determined not to succumb before she did. He wiped off the liquid and looked closely at her nose, spying a light freckle on one side. “I do believe you are right, Lady Jasper. Your nose does appear creamier. Would you like me to apply it to the rest of your face?”

  Her lips twitched. “I don’t think Monsieur Roch would take kindly to us using his dessert as a facial cream.”

  “I gather not.” Morgan eyed the cook sheepishly. “Forgive us, Monsieur. If it’s all right with you, I shall steal Lady Jasper for a time. I’m hoping she will accompany me on a stroll through the gardens.”

  “Perfectly all right,” answered the cook a bit too quickly.

  Abby looked suspiciously from the cook to Morgan before taking his arm. As soon as they had exited the house, she pulled free and faced him. “Was I that much of a nuisance that you needed to save the cook from my interference?”

  Morgan felt contrite. She looked hurt. “I wouldn’t say nuisance.”

  “What would you say?”

  “Perhaps hindrance?” He wished the word back the moment her mouth dropped into a frown. Admittedly, it wasn’t much better. “Abby, you must understand that Monsieur Roch is a busy man, and… well…” How could he possibly put it nicely?

  “I was getting in his way,” she finished for him, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Brigston. It wasn’t my intent to hinder.”

  She appeared so disheartened. Morgan wanted to pull her into an embrace, if only to show her that he enjoyed her company even if the kitchen staff did not.

  Instead, he asked gently, “What was your intent?”

  She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to know the servants better? That sounds ludicrous, I know, but when I was a young girl, our cook and maids became very dear to me. Whenever I was feeling especially lonely, I would go to the kitchen, and Mrs. Wood would make me scones and preserves. She would ask after me and listen to my stories and concerns. In a way, she became the mother I never had. I miss that connection.”

  “And you thought Monsieur Roch could be such a person?”

  She blushed, then smiled ruefully. “Let’s just say that I hoped he’d be a mite friendlier. I should have known I’d only get in the way.”

  Morgan held out his arm, hoping she’d accept it and walk with him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to content yourself with my company for now.”

  “But that’s my point,” she said. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to entertain me. You are busy with the estate, and—”

  “Abby.” He gently took her hand and tucked it through is arm, liking how well she seemed to fit beside him. “Spending time with you is not an obligation. It is a pleasure.”

  She snorted. “That’s doing it a bit too brown, my lord.”

  “Not at all. Now, where shall we walk today? To the east? The west? The beach?” When she appeared ready to argue, he added firmly, “I am asking as your friend, Abby.”

  She considered him a long moment before nodding hesitantly. “I would love to see the poor tree you and Jasper defiled in your attempt to build a tree fort. Will you show it to me?”

  How she made him smile. He would happily show her that and anything else she wanted to see. “Very well, but if I ever catch you trying to climb the rickety ladder, assuming it’s still there, I shall turn you over my knee.”

  She pulled her hand free, took a step back, and arched her brow at him. “Aren’t you domineering? First you order me off a horse and now threaten to spank me? Do you see me as an impertinent child, my lord? Because I assure you, I am not.” She grinned impishly and strode forward, saying over her shoulder, “At least not a child.”

  Brigston chuckled, admiring the lovely figure she made as she walked ahead. Her straight back, swinging hips, and golden hair shining in the sunlight. A few tendrils had escaped the simple knot and blew slightly in the breeze, and beneath her swishing black skirts, he caught a glimpse of a trim ankle.

  No, you are most definitely not a child, he thought.

  THAT EVENING AT dinner, Morgan’s mother joined him and Abby in the dining room. She looked dreadful. The black of her gown matched the dark circles under her eyes, and her severe chignon contained none of the curls or softness she usually wore. She’d aged a decade since he’d last seen her.

  She picked at her food, barely speaking a word.

  Morgan attempted to engage her in various conversations, and Abby inquired after the christening gowns they had made for the twins, but she barely muttered a response. It seemed as though she was caught in a dreary, far-off place, unreachable by anyone.

  At long last, the trio retired to the drawing room. Morgan shot a worried look at Abby before proposing a game of faro. He probably should have suggested charades instead, a pastime his mother had always liked, but he wanted to see how she’d react to a game Jasper had enjoyed. Was she ready to speak of her son, at least a little?

  Her stricken gaze darted to his, and he caught a sheen of tears in her eyes before she quickly excused herself, muttering something about a headache.

  Morgan mentally kicked himself. He hadn’t meant to be cruel or unkind. Speaking of Jasper with Abby had brought a peace to Morgan’s soul he’d never felt in the silent months after his father’s death. He wanted to share that feeling with his mother, but how could he when she was determined to escape all thoughts of her son?

  It pained him to see her so low.

  “She makes me feel guilty for smiling and laughing,” said Abby quietly. “Am I wrong to do so?”

  Morgan considered the question before responding. “How would Jasper want you to feel?”

  She nodded. They both knew the answer to that. “Perhaps if we keep trying, we can help her to smile again as well.”

  “Perhaps.” Morgan refrained from pointing out that if she still intended to leave after the documents had been signed
, they didn’t have much time. His mother would need Abby’s smiles and laughter as much as he did, if not more so.

  He’d just have to try harder to convince her to stay.

  Morgan mustered a cheerful tone. “I only suggested faro because it was a favorite of Jasper’s. I don’t really care for it. How about a stroll through the gardens instead?”

  Abby pulled her black shawl tighter about her shoulders, as though the thought of venturing outside made her cold. “What about a game of Snapdragon? I’ve never played before, but I’ve always wanted to give it a go. It sounds exciting.”

  Morgan disagreed. He’d played it once and swore he’d never do so again. “Plucking raisins from a burning bowl of brandy is anything but exciting. We’ll just burn our fingers and tongues. Besides, it’s only September. Christmas is ages away.”

  “There is no law that says we can’t play it now.” She leaned forward and gave his hand a squeeze with her cold fingers. “Tell me you aren’t the least bit tempted.”

  “I’m not the least bit tempted.” Morgan looked down at their hands. This was the first time she’d voluntarily touched him, and he was glad to see—or rather, feel—it. She was no longer skittish around him, which was a good thing. Brothers and sisters should feel at ease in one another’s company.

  “You’re freezing.” He took her hand between both of his and began rubbing some warmth back into it.

  Her smile seemed to freeze in place as she glanced from their clasped hands to his face. In that moment, something almost palpable crackled between them, like a wayward spark from a flame threatening to land somewhere it shouldn’t, possibly even start a fire of its own.

  Morgan swallowed. Perhaps he was beginning to feel a little too at ease with his sister-in-law.

  He slowly relinquished her hand, then stood to stoke the fire. In an effort to dispel the awkward tension, he said, “How about a compromise? If you choose a different game for this evening, I will play Snapdragon with you on Christmas Eve.” He didn’t ask if she would be at Oakley on Christmas Eve or if she was still set on leaving. He merely waited.