by Emma Chase
“Hello, Edward.”
It’s been three years since I’ve seen him, when he and Michael joined me on holiday sailing near Jamaica. Three years too long. Too late.
“Thomas.” I go down to my knees and hug him—embracing him tightly—wanting so much to pass him my strength, my health. To make this better, now that I’m here, now that I’m home.
He smacks my back and looks me in the eyes as I straighten up. Then he turns his attention over my shoulder.
“What happened, Lenora?”
There’s a staff member at each arm as she takes tender steps up the stairs.
“Just a little mishap with the horse. I’ll be fine.” She says, all dignity and controlled composure. “You two get reacquainted. Don’t wait for me for supper—I’ll dine in my room tonight.”
“Stay off your feet,” I say, the words naturally coming out like an order. “And get some ice on that ankle.”
She nods stiffly. Her eyes dart to me quickly, then away—like she’s trying not to look, but just can’t help herself.
I watch her go until she turns the corner at the top of the stairs and Thomas touches my arm. “Lenora has commandeered the library, so let’s go to the study. We have a lot to talk about.”
Horatio brings me towels and a change of clothes. In the study, Michael pours us three brandies, then takes the seat beside my brother’s wheelchair, close to the fire.
Thomas raises his glass. “It’s good to have you home, Edward.”
“It’s good to be home, little brother.”
“Liar. You hate this place with the heat of a thousand suns.”
I shrug. “Maybe only a few suns now. I’ve mellowed in my old age.”
My brother takes a sip of his drink. “Did you find what you were looking for? Your purpose?”
He’s talking about a conversation we’d had when he and Michael had visited.
I left Wessco in search of adventure and excitement—and to stick it to my old bastard of a father. But that’s not why I stayed away. I stayed away because I wanted more out of life than a title and vaults full of money I didn’t earn. I wanted a purpose. A reason for being. I was searching for it.
I still am.
“No,” I tell him.
“I didn’t think so,” my brother says. Then he glances at Michael and some secret communication passes between them.
I look him over again—his frail frame and sunken cheeks. And my voice turns as gutted as I feel.
“Why didn’t you write me sooner?”
He lifts his shoulder, taking a mouthful of brandy.
“It’s not really something you put in a telegram. ‘I’m dying. Stop. Come home. Stop. Hope you make it in time. Cheers.’”
I take the folded telegram from my back pocket.
“But that’s exactly what you wrote. Literally that.”
He laughs. “Well . . . I guess it took some time for me to work up the courage. To accept it.”
“I don’t want you to accept it,” I growl through clenched teeth.
I want him to live. And I’m ready to do anything, to make that happen.
“I want—”
He reads my thoughts or my expression. Or both.
“Don’t start. It’s lung cancer, Edward. Aggressive. I’ve spoken to the doctors, specialists. There’s nothing to be done.”
“Doctors don’t know everything. There are alternative treatments. When I was in
India—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not going to spend my final days being dragged around strapped to your back.” His tone goes somber. Determined. “I want to go on my own terms, while I’m still myself, while I still have a say. It matters to me.”
“For fuck’s sake, Thomas. There must be something I can do.”
He gazes at me with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Well, now that you mention it. There is one thing . . .”
The next morning, after I shower and shave, I sit with Thomas in his room. He’s dressed, but still in bed. We talked for several hours last night—about many things, but about one thing in particular.
Lenora—the Queen—walks into the room, her expression smooth and composed, wearing gray slacks with a red sweater and a chiffon scarf tied around her neck.
“Good morning.” I stand and bow, watching her carefully.
When you travel the world and live amongst cultures different from your own, you become observant. You note body language and facial expressions; you learn how to read people.
“How’s your ankle?”
She gives the barest shrug. “It’s fine.”
I saw her ankle yesterday—it’s nowhere near fine. It was already swelling out in the woods. It must be hurting her, but she doesn’t limp or grimace even as she walks in black baby-doll pumps.
Little Lenny either has a sky-high pain threshold or self-control made of iron.
She pulls up a chair beside Thomas’s bed and reaches for the porridge on the tray. “You need to eat your breakfast.”
“There’s things we need to talk about, Lenora.”
“Thomas—”
He holds up his hand, swearing, “I’ll eat the whole bowl after we talk.”
She sighs. “All right. What did you want to talk about?”
And my brother, ever diplomatic, just puts it all out there.
“I think you should marry Edward.”
She pauses, but her expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t laugh or gasp or frown. Her tone is cool and reserved.
“Your brother? How biblical.”
Her gray eyes slice my way. “You’ve agreed to this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He’s my brother. He asked. I won’t deny him, not now.”
And it’s the truth. But it’s not the only truth. Something about her intrigues me—this beautiful, guarded woman, who rides wild in the woods when she thinks no one is looking.
She turns back to Thomas.
“We’ve discussed this. We’ve agreed. I’m marrying you.”
“You will put me in the ground before the month is out.”
That gets a flinch out of her.
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“I said stop it.” Lenora gets to her feet. “I won’t listen.”
Thomas gives in, closing his mouth and nodding his head. But only for a moment.
“No, you know what?” He swipes his teacup with the back of his hand and it explodes against the wall. “To hell with that. If I can do the dying, you can damn well listen to me talk about it.”
“Thomas—”
“There are unpleasant truths we have to deal with. That you have to deal with—you can’t stubborn them away, Lenora.” His jaw is clenched and he’s as angry as I’ve ever seen him. “You have to get married—that’s a fact. You need to be married before your sister gets pregnant—another fact. When I am gone, you’ll be back in the same precarious position you were in two months ago. So who’s it going to be, hmm? Who’s left to choose from? The sadist, who’ll want to smack you around a bit before he fucks you?”
“Stop it—”
“Or the old man, who I don’t even want to know what he’ll have to do to get it up before he crawls between your legs.”
She doesn’t back down; she doesn’t retreat a single inch.
“Don’t be obscene.”
My brother’s words are harsh and furious. “If any situation on earth called for obscenity, it’s this one.”
He barely gets the sentence out, when the coughing starts. So hard it wracks through his body and bends his back, hunching him forward. I pour him a glass of water and give him a handkerchief from my pocket. Thomas presses it to his lips and it comes away with blood on it. After a few moments, he settles.
“I thought you’d be pleased with the idea,” he rasps. “There was a time when we read Edward’s letters that you—”
“Don�
��t.” Her cheeks flush pink. Whether it’s from embarrassment or anger, I can’t tell. “That girl is gone.”
I wonder about that girl—where she’s run off to and what happened to make her go. I would’ve liked to have met her; I think we could’ve gotten on well.
Thomas’s expression turns searching and sad. He shakes his head.
“Wouldn’t you do it for me?”
“What?”
“If you were leaving forever, and you knew there was something you could do to make it easier on me, wouldn’t you do it?”
“Of course,” Lenora swears, and the sincerity in her voice rings clear.
“Then for God’s sake, consider it. If not for yourself then for me. So I can have the peace of knowing that I’m not completely abandoning you.”
Another round of coughing starts up, this one worse than before. And it’s so damn hard to watch him struggle. I just want her to fucking agree—agree to anything, as long as he can rest easy.
It’s as if she reads my mind.
“All right. All right.” Lenora nods, her face pinched. “I’ll consider it.”
Thomas rests back on the pillows, breathing hard, but short of breath.
“Thank you.”
She nods, giving me the barest glance, then looking back to my brother. “I have to . . . I’ll be gone for the day. I’ll be back later.”
Then she’s gone, the click of the door echoing in her wake.
My eyebrows lift. “That went well.”
“She’ll come around. She’s stubborn but logical; she’ll see the reason in it. She always does.”
I watch my brother, trying to see the answer on his face.
“Do you love her, Thomas?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. The first time I saw her, I knew she would get me. That she was just like me.”
“Just like you, how?”
“Lonely.”
And I hate myself more than I ever thought possible. The guilt is suffocating and irrevocable, and deserved.
“But it’s worse for her, Edward. She’s the most alone person in the whole world.”
“She’s the bloody Queen! She’s surrounded by people every moment of every day.”
“And yet she has no one. No one who cares about her. Not really. No one but me . . . and I hope, soon . . . you.”
I GO TO ALFIE’S ESTATE in Averdeen. To the back of the house, to that old monster of a tree and the rickety swing. Eventually, when Alfie comes out he finds me there, my forehead resting on the rope. And the words pour out, hushed and awful.
“Thomas is dying, Alfie.”
“I know, Chicken. I’m so sorry.”
“He wants me to marry Edward.”
“Edward who?”
“Edward Rourke.”
“No one’s seen Edward Rourke for years. He’s practically a legend these days—like William Wallace, the rogue adventurer.”
“He’s at Anthorp Castle right now. Thomas sent him a telegram and—poof—he came home, just like that.”
Alfie looks up at the cloudy sky. “Thomas always was a sharp one. Edward has the right name, and when his brother passes, he’ll have the title once again. He’ll be a suitable match for you.”
“I don’t know him,” I argue harshly.
“You won’t know any of them.”
My head snaps up. “But I would know of them. Their motivations, their goals . . . I would have information. Edward is a blank slate to me. I won’t be able to anticipate him.”
“You mean you won’t be able to control him.”
“That too.” I nod.
He chuckles then, shaking his head, and his voice goes soft.
“You are your father’s daughter.”
And suddenly I’m just so tired. From the weight of it all—the choices and changes. It’s exhausting.
“What do I do, Alfie? What would Father tell me to do?”
He rubs his chin, considering the question. “He would tell you to make a decision, don’t dawdle. He could never abide dawdlers. Your father would want you to look at your options and make the best choice.”
“What if there is no best choice?”
“Then choose the least worst.” He looks down at me with kind affection. A fatherly look. “If you want my opinion, from what I know of the man he is, you could do worse than Edward. It says a lot about a woman, a queen, the man she chooses to tie herself to.”
I stare at the ground and there’s a bitterness on my tongue, flavoring my words.
“And what would Edward Rourke say about me?”
“That you are fearless, bold, unpredictable . . . perhaps a bit wicked. In your position, those are not bad things to be, Lenora.”
“No . . .”
I cannot disagree.
“Not bad at’all.”
It’s dark by the time I return to Anthorp Castle. I step softly into Thomas’s dimly lit room and walk to the bed where he’s sleeping, propped up on pillows. Edward sits beside the bed, following my every move. I don’t look at him, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze. The questioning.
I put my hand over Thomas’s and slowly he opens his eyes.
“I accept,” I tell him.
And it feels like a failure. Like accepting defeat. Because this fight for his life is one we can’t win.
Thomas’s voice is barely a whisper. “Smart girl. Thank you.”
Only then do I turn to Edward and meet his gaze straight on.
“I accept,” I tell him too, but it feels very different.
It’s like accepting a challenge.
For a moment, his intense green eyes hold me possessively as I wait for his response.
It comes in the form of a sharp, deliberate nod.
And quick as that, the course of my life is set.
THINGS GO QUICKLY AFTER THAT, as if Thomas was just holding on, to set things straight. A doctor comes and stays at the castle, monitoring his condition, setting up an intravenous drip to treat him for pain. I’m there as much as I can be—putting aside everything but the most urgent, unavoidable business. Michael is there, doing anything he can for him, whispering to him, holding his hand. Most of the time Thomas sleeps. Occasionally, he’ll open his eyes and give me a smile when he can manage it.
Give us a smile.
Edward is always there as well, always in the room. He takes his meals there; he rests in the chair beside the bed—when he rests at all. He’s showered and wears fresh clothes, but otherwise, he doesn’t leave Thomas’s side.
One evening, Thomas opens his eyes and turns toward his brother. And in a reedy voice, he tells him, “Don’t be sad, Edward. This time I’ll be the one traveling. I’ll try to write and tell you all about it.”
Edward gives him a smile—and it’s a beautiful smile. Then he presses his hand against Thomas’s cheek, patting him gently.
I don’t think about the country, the Advising Council or Parliament. I don’t think about the “after” or the promises I’ve made. And Edward must feel the same. Because we only speak to each other about Thomas.
The rest will be for another time, another life . . . another us.
Early on Saturday morning, the heavy drapes are shut, and Michael has finally given in to his exhaustion and is napping on the sofa in the sitting room. Thomas’s eyes are closed, his lips moving soundlessly, his skin pale with a bluish hue, despite the oxygen mask that rests over his face.
The maid moves to turn the light down. And Edward practically bites her head off.
“Leave it!”
She startles, but then recovers, and lifts the tray from the night table before silently leaving the room. And we go back to waiting, watching the slow rise and fall of Thomas’s chest.
“He didn’t like the dark,” Edward says quietly. “When we were young, before I left, he would come into my room at night because he was afraid. He’d always ask me to leave the lights on. And I did.”
“He’s not afraid
of the dark anymore,” I tell him, just as quietly.
He turns his eyes to me. “How do you know?”
“There are catacombs below the Palace of Wessco. I’ve lived there my whole life but never stepped foot in them. Until last year, when he talked me into going exploring. He had a flashlight, but otherwise it was pitch black. And he told me a ghost story—about a man wanting his golden arm—the whole time. Thomas thought it was hilarious . . . I didn’t sleep for a week.”
A hoarse bark of a chuckle comes from Edward’s throat. And I almost laugh with him, even while the memory makes me want to cry.
“Good,” he whispers.
And we resume our vigil.
I DO THE MATH IN my head . . . mostly to keep from losing my mind. I was gone for ten years, eleven if you count the war. I wrote Thomas about a letter a week, sometimes more, sometimes less—an average of four per month. Four, times twelve months a year, times eleven.
Five hundred and twenty-eight letters, tens of thousands of words, countless moments between my baby brother and me.
I don’t have any of his letters; they were burned in campfires all around the globe. When you live on the move, you must travel light, and sentimentality is too heavy to carry. But I don’t need them—I already know every word and every curve of every letter he wrote, by heart.
It’d be a mistake to think we weren’t close just because we didn’t live in the same place. I know brothers who shared the same bloody bed who couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
But Thomas was with me all the time. Every new place, new experience, new memory . . . he was there, in my thoughts—I couldn’t wait to share them with him. And I know it was the same for him. Thomas confessed his deepest secrets to me in those letters, like he thought it would matter to me. As if there was anything in the world that he could write about himself that would make me think less of him. That would make me not love him fully and completely—the same way he loved in return.
There wasn’t and I told him so.
I know how to live in a place where my brother’s not. But I don’t know how to live in a world where he doesn’t.
And as I sit here at the side of his bed and watch his life slowly slip away, it’s like a part of my soul is slipping away with it. Leaving it hard and barren. Like the parched, cracked earth without water. Like the arctic without the sun.