“I can’t say how sorry I am about Ronnie,” John said. “He’s sobered up considerably since his tumble down the stairs, but he wasn’t ready yet to face either a lively conversation or a full meal.”
“I understand, Lord Welford. I grew up with two brothers myself. He’s at that difficult age, too old to be looked after but not old enough to look after himself. We know you can’t watch over him every second.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lady Fleetwood.” John didn’t know which was more embarrassing, having to apologize for his brother’s troublesome behavior or having Caro’s family shower him with assurances that no one blamed him.
He spent the meal having to pretend he wasn’t both discouraged and mortified. It was all the more humbling because he’d told Caro the story of his twenty-first birthday that very afternoon, and anything but patient forbearance on his part was bound to look like the grossest hypocrisy.
But the worst part had nothing to do with his own self-importance or embarrassment, and everything to do with his worry about his brother. He wanted Ronnie to succeed in life, to find happiness and make his mark on the world, and John had done his best to provide the kind of encouragement and advice he wished his father had given him when he was growing up. Instead Ronnie seemed bent on drinking himself into ruin.
And then there was the other problem weighing on his mind, the advance Miss Fleetwood had made to him that afternoon. He hadn’t decided yet whether to heed Caro’s objection or go to Sir Geoffrey, but no matter how he handled it in the end, Caro’s reaction troubled him. John had begun to hope she was coming to feel something for him, and that the ease and affection that had been steadily growing between them was genuine. But something about her response felt off. He hadn’t really expected her to be jealous of Miss Fleetwood, not when the girl was too young to pose any serious threat. Still, Caro had seemed strangely evasive, as if it made no difference to her whether other women made amorous advances toward him or not, but she knew better than to say so.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Caro seemed so unconcerned. No matter what he’d been telling himself for the past few days, as far as she was concerned, they were only pretending to be happily married. This closeness was all an act. Somehow he’d lost sight of that.
Now he had to distance himself from her cousin, though Miss Fleetwood seemed determined to flirt with him. John kept their interaction to a minimum, answering her questions as briefly as politeness allowed and refusing to encourage further conversation. When dinner ended and the ladies withdrew to leave the men to their port, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“Cheer up, my boy,” Bishop Fleetwood said, studying him. “You’re looking awfully blue-deviled.”
Were his emotions really so easy to read? He hated to think what kind of impression he’d made in Vienna, moping about for years on end. “Forgive me. It’s just that I’m at a loss to explain why my brother would think this was the proper time and place to drink himself into insensibility. I’ve been his guardian since he was eleven years old, and I still don’t understand him. I wonder, would he have ended up so wild if I hadn’t spent the past five years trying to look after him from half a continent away?”
“He’s very young for you to despair of the way he’s ended up,” Bishop Fleetwood said with a tolerant smile. “For that matter, you’re scarcely old enough yourself to have cultivated the patience needed to deal with a temperamental nineteen-year-old. Would you mind if I were to talk with him—in your presence, of course?”
“Not at all,” John said. “I’d be grateful.”
“Ring the bell, then,” the bishop said, “and let’s bring him down.”
Sir Geoffrey made to rise. “I’ll leave you gentlemen alone.”
John held up a staying hand. “No, Sir Geoffrey, please. This is your home. As regrettable as this situation is, I’d regret it even more if I allowed my brother to drive you from your own table.”
“Yes, stay, Geoff,” the bishop urged. “You may have something constructive to offer.”
“Why, Matt, you make me sound almost useful,” his brother said with a laugh.
Within five minutes, Ronnie joined them in the dining room, entering with a sheepish expression. “Sanders said you wish to see me.”
“I do, but don’t look so uneasy, my boy,” Bishop Fleetwood said. “I’d simply like to talk with you. Have a seat.”
Ronnie took the vacant chair on the bishop’s left, Lady Fleetwood’s chair. “About what? Are you going to ring a peal over my head too?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” the bishop assured him. “This is purely a friendly chat. To begin with, I’m curious to know what you see yourself doing ten years from now.”
“What I...” Ronnie’s forehead knit in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”
“What are your career ambitions?” the bishop asked. “Have you given any thought to what you wish to do with your life?”
John found it interesting that Caro’s father had opened with the very question Caro had urged him to ask Ronnie while the bishop was dozing in the same room. He had been asleep, hadn’t he?
Ronnie glanced uneasily across the table at John.
“It’s quite all right,” Bishop Fleetwood said. “Feel free to speak your mind. John isn’t going to lose his temper, are you, John?”
There seemed little he could do except agree. “No, sir.”
Ronnie picked at the edge of the table with one fingernail. “I don’t really know how to answer. The truth is, I don’t see myself doing much of anything.”
John frowned. “That’s not true, Ronnie. You and I have talked about this, and you’re going into the diplomatic service.”
Ronnie’s face took on a hunted expression. “I know you’ve been hoping for that, but it’s never going to happen.”
John bristled. “Why not?”
The bishop gave him a subtly admonishing look. “What makes you say that, Mr. Welford?” he asked in a kindly tone.
“I’m not clever enough.”
“What do you mean, you’re not clever enough?” John protested. “You may not have done well last year at university, but if you would only make an effort—”
The bishop held up a finger in a signal for calm, and John quickly broke off.
“But that’s just it. I was making an effort,” Ronnie answered, his face flushed. “I was making lots of efforts! But I’m not quick-witted, not the way you are. I tried—I studied and studied—but I kept falling further behind.”
“Do you mean to say you were doing your best?” Though he kept his voice calm and reasonable, John found the claim hard to believe when his stepmother had never passed up an opportunity to remind him how brilliant Ronnie was.
“Yes! I studied all the time. I don’t know why nothing stuck. Everyone else at Oxford seemed to catch on easily enough, but not me. And all the while I kept thinking how disappointed you were going to be when you found out.” He buried his face in his hands. “It got so bad I started having shaking fits whenever I had to hand in an exercise.”
The bishop set a hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. “It’s all right, my boy.”
Seeing his brother’s obvious distress, it dawned on John that his stepmother’s reports of Ronnie’s brilliance had been greatly exaggerated. Why the possibility had never occurred to him before he didn’t know, except that she’d seemed so supremely convinced of Ronnie’s intellectual superiority, while his own achievements at Winchester and Oxford had made no impression on her at all...
Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? His stepmother’s dislike had had little to do with anything John had done or not done, and the same went for her love for Ronnie. She’d simply adored Ronnie and his father, doggedly and extravagantly, and resented him in the same measure.
“Ronnie,” John said, “why didn’t you tell me?
All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to make the most of your opportunities. If I seemed angry when you were rusticated, it wasn’t because I won’t be satisfied unless you become the next member of the Royal Society, it was because I thought you weren’t applying yourself.”
Ronnie lifted his head. “But I was applying myself. I stayed up late every night and made up tricks for memorizing my declensions and even paid a Scholar to read my verses before I handed them in, so he could tell me where I’d gone wrong. Nothing made a bit of difference.”
“I’m sorry, Ronnie. I didn’t know.”
Ronnie stared down glumly at the table. “I didn’t want you to know. I’d rather you thought I was being idle or that it was because of the drink, and not that I wasn’t clever enough to do as well at university as you did.”
John breathed a regretful sigh. So that was why Ronnie had been drinking so much—anything to escape the heavy burden of expectation John had placed on him. And to think he’d worried Ronnie was irresponsible and apathetic, perhaps even in league against him with Caro, when all along Caro had been right. The real problem had been his own unreasonable demands. He’d thought he was doing a good job as Ronnie’s guardian merely because he wasn’t neglectful in the way his own father had been, but Ronnie hadn’t needed another father to manage him and push him. He’d needed a brother, a friend. Someone soft-hearted and sympathetic, like Caro.
Bishop Fleetwood had been listening in silence, but at John’s sigh he gave Ronnie a heartening smile. “My dear boy,” he said with warm affection, “do you imagine you’re the only young man who’s found it difficult to live up to the reputation of an older brother? I’m sure you must have heard the old maxim that the Church is a profession for the fool of the family.”
Ronnie looked befuddled. “Do you mean...you, sir?”
“I often say it was clever of God to arrange matters so that my twin was born the elder brother—” he glanced in Sir Geoffrey’s direction “—but I don’t mean that as a compliment to myself or to any value I might have to the Church. I mean it’s far better for Stanling Priory and its dependents to have my brother here as master than it would’ve been to have me. Geoffrey was always the clever one.”
“But you became Bishop of Essex,” Ronnie said with a doubtful look.
“Precisely! Which only goes to show that while a sharp mind may take one far, dedication and the right temperament can be every bit as valuable. I struggled through every day at Oxford, but that didn’t stop me from finding success.”
Ronnie’s brow knit in a thoughtful frown. “So you think I should go into the Church?”
“Do you want to go into the Church? We’ve already established that you don’t feel cut out for a diplomatic career, but there are any number of occupations at which a young man like you might excel.”
Ronnie scratched his jaw. “I have thought about the Navy. I used to go sailing whenever I visited my mother’s family in Devon, and I loved everything about it.”
“I didn’t know that,” John said.
“I never mentioned it, because you and Mama’s family never got on, and I thought you might disapprove. But even if you were to like the idea, I’m probably too old for it now. Most young gentlemen join the Navy at thirteen, and by the time they’re my age, they’re ready to take the lieutenant’s examination.”
“You’re older than most,” John said, “but God forbid that nineteen should be too old to undertake a new endeavor. And there’s no reason to despair of finding preferment, especially with the right connections.”
A hopeful gleam lit Ronnie’s eyes. “You mean you’d really let me go to sea?”
“If you go as an officer-in-training, yes, I would.”
“Truly?” Ronnie was so excited he sprang to his feet. “I sometimes wondered if you might understand, but my tutor wouldn’t hear of it, and Caro said you were determined to see me back at Oxford—” He stopped, glanced guiltily at the bishop, and finished, “I mean, she wrote that in her letters. From Vienna.”
“Yes,” John said dryly. “So I gathered.”
“I have friends in the Admiralty,” Bishop Fleetwood said. “I’ll write to them and ask them to suggest a captain willing to take you on as an able seaman or a quarterdeck volunteer. It may even be possible to have you rated a midshipman, in consideration of your prior sailing experience.”
“Would you, sir? Oh, thank you!” Ronnie’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “I can’t say how grateful I would be.”
“But, please,” John said, “no more drinking yourself into insensibility. If you mean to become an officer, I need to know you can keep your wits about you.”
“I won’t,” Ronnie said. “Drink, that is. Not alone, and not unless I have your permission first.”
“Good. Then you’re welcome to go and join the ladies in the drawing room.”
Ronnie was on his way out when he stopped and turned to address Caro’s uncle. “Before I go, Sir Geoffrey—I apologize. I never meant to make such a cake of myself, especially as a guest in your house.”
Sir Geoffrey waved a careless hand. “Apology accepted.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ronnie grinned and excused himself with a bow.
He’d been gone only a few seconds when Sir Geoffrey gave his twin a bemused look. “Matthew, what were you about, telling that boy I was more clever than you? You know very well that you were always a far better scholar. Not only were you a double first classman, but you wrote the Latin Prize poem our year at Oxford.”
“I know that, and you know that,” Bishop Fleetwood said, “but why should young Mr. Welford have to know that? I said you were the clever one, not the more clever one—”
“And that you struggled through every day at Oxford.”
“Which is true enough. I had to climb two flights of stairs to reach my room, carrying a heavy stack of books all the way.”
Sir Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “You know that’s not how Mr. Welford understood you.”
“All for a good cause,” Bishop Fleetwood said, looking not at all contrite. “That boy could use a little confidence in himself, and if believing that indifferent scholarship is no bar to success will give him that confidence, then I’m content to let him believe what he will.” He smiled. “Besides, I meant the part about your being better for the Priory than I would be. Of the two of us, you’ve always been the more practical one.”
“And don’t forget better-looking.”
“I try not to think about that too much, Geoff,” the bishop said mildly. “Envy rots the bones.”
His twin laughed.
John regarded Bishop Fleetwood with interest. Even if he hadn’t precisely lied in the way he’d presented the facts, he was certainly guilty of equivocation. On the other hand, his half-truths had given Ronnie a new sense of purpose and self-respect. John was more inclined to admire the bishop’s finesse than to condemn his tactics.
But then, he could see what was in the bishop’s heart—not a self-serving desire to gain the upper hand or to puff up his own consequence, but a sincere wish to help. If only Caro’s falsehoods had always been so selfless...
Thank heavens she’d promised not to lie to him anymore. If he could only trust her from now on, perhaps their marriage might have a chance.
Chapter Twenty-Two
To tell our own secrets is generally folly, but that folly is without guilt; to communicate those with which we are intrusted is always treachery, and treachery for the most part combined with folly.
—Samuel Johnson
While the gentlemen enjoyed their port in the dining room, Caro chatted with her aunt and her cousin in the drawing room.
Before long, Sophia yawned. “I’m tired, and I have a touch of the headache, Mama. Would you mind very much if I retire early?”
“Now? That
’s not like you, to miss an evening in company,” Lady Fleetwood said with a worried look.
“I know, but I’m not feeling quite the thing.”
“In that case, you’d better go and lie down.”
Sophia produced a weak smile. “Thank you, Mama. Good night, then, both of you.”
She slipped out, leaving Caro alone with her aunt. “I don’t think Sophia has a very high opinion of me.”
“Oh no, dear, you mustn’t think that. It’s more the opposite—she’s always been envious of you and Anne, because you were older and she felt left out of the things you girls did together.”
“We didn’t mean to slight her. It never occurred to me that she might wish to do the same things we were doing, when we were out or nearly so, and she hadn’t yet put up her hair.”
“I know, and I tried to persuade her as much, but all she saw were your city clothes and city polish, and how grown-up you seemed—your talent with the piano, for example, and your poise when you served as your father’s hostess. She could think of little else except how much she wanted to be like you.”
Perhaps that was the source of Sophia’s jealousy—that she was still remembering when she’d been eleven and Caro sixteen, and she’d envied not only Caro’s bonnets and gloves and shawls, but also Caro’s new freedom to mix socially with adults. Even now, Caro’s life must seem charmed to Sophia, who had only met romantic, amusing John, and not the cold, disapproving version.
No, that wasn’t true. Sophia knew that she and John had been putting on an act. She’d heard a scrap of their candid conversation. And she’d missed many of Romantic John’s best moments, like the look on his face when he’d said he didn’t like the notion of Caro crying, and their breathless encounter in the cloakroom. Sophia had met Disapproving John too, apparently, when she’d thrown herself at him. Yet it wasn’t Caro’s gloves or Caro’s bonnets Sophia longed for now. She wanted Caro’s husband.
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