THE GRUDGING CONSORT

fifteen

Autumn had come at last, making up for one of the longest, driest summers in living memory with a crashing storm that knocked half the leaves from the trees all at once and whipped the sea into a frenzy. Wind howled around every corner and blew gusts down the chimney and through all the cracks at the edges of the windows, sending puffs of ash across the rug and setting the curtains fluttering. Torrents of rain washed down the windows and cast everything in wavering gray. The storm would have been more appropriate for late November. That it came so early in October was a sign of a harsh winter to come. Even with the fire, it was chilly in the breakfast-parlor. For all it mattered to Arthur, it might as well have been midsummer; he was already cold in every limb, and it came from the letter he held in his hand rather than from the weather. It had been some weeks since Arthur resumed corresponding with Tom. He had written in response to the announcement of Tom’s marriage, sending the briefest of insincere congratulations, rather more sincere well-wishes for Tom’s wife and unborn child, and a few words informing his brother that he had taken his place as Owen’s fiancé. After that, there had been a resounding silence on both sides. Arthur had expected recriminations, undeserved as they would have been; they had never come. It was possible Tom knew any letters he sent in those first months would have been thrown in the fire unopened. Their mother had been busy, though, writing to Arthur (and to Tom, as she informed him often) with unrelenting regularity. She had at last worn Arthur down to the point where he had allowed Tom to write, and then to the point where he would reply, and now, finally, there was this. There was movement in the room; Arthur vaguely registered it as he read the letter through for the third time. “Goddess, but it’s dreadful out there!” Owen said, sitting down in his usual place on Arthur’s left. “Arthur?” A sudden sharp pain in Arthur’s shin made him jump and look up at last. “Did you kick me?” Owen frowned at him. “Did someone kick you? I’m surprised you noticed.” Under other circumstances, he would have laughed from pure joy at that, despite the bruise forming on his leg. Arthur quickly folded up the letter and tucked it beside his plate. Owen’s gaze riveted on it; with a sinking inevitability, Arthur saw that in his haste to put it out of Owen’s view he had set it down with the direction face-up. “That’s,” Owen swallowed hard. “That’s — Tom’s handwriting.” He looked up at Arthur, his eyes like chips of sea-glass. “When were you going to tell me you’d had a letter from him?” Arthur looked down at his uneaten breakfast, quite unable to face that look of reproach. “It’s not the first,” he admitted. “My mother has been very insistent that we mend the breach.” “Yes, I know that,” Owen said, with some impatience. Arthur had shown him some of her letters; they had even exchanged one or two courteous missives of their own, though without much warmth. She had wanted a wife for Arthur, and children. Arthur’s honest protestations that neither held much interest for him hadn’t changed her mind. “But I didn’t know you’d given in.” “He is still my brother. Should I not have?” Arthur looked up, then, ready to be annoyed. Guilt had its claws in him, and the best defense against it would be to turn his edgy dismay against Owen somehow. That ungenerous impulse died away when he saw Owen’s wide eyes, and his lips pressed together, as if he were trying very hard not to cry. He laid his hand over Owen’s where it rested on the table. “I’m sorry. I believe I did have every right to resume some contact with him. But I ought to have told you. There simply wasn’t much to tell.” That was true enough, as far as it went. Their letters so far had carefully skirted anything of importance — before this one, at least. Owen pulled his hand out from under his and poured himself a cup of tea. It felt like a rejection, and it stung. “I wouldn’t want to know anyway, I suppose,” Owen said in a tone of careful, and clearly false, indifference. That stung all the more. “He wants to visit,” Arthur said shortly. “And bring —” He stopped, but it was too late. Tea sloshed over the tablecloth as the pot slipped from Owen’s hand. He set it down and shook drops of tea from his fingers. “He wants to bring his wife? Caroline.” “Yes.” There was no point in denying it. “He says that it will soon be unsafe for her to travel, and he’d like to come before then.” The long, deadly silence that followed told Arthur he had made a grave misstep, and he frantically went over his words, trying to determine how. Owen knew Caroline was with child. The mention of it shouldn’t have prompted quite such a reaction. “I thought — she ought to be too close already to travel so far.” Owen had gone white to his very lips, though twin spots of high color stood out on his cheekbones. “I thought she would be brought to bed by the winter solstice.” Horrified understanding struck Arthur with a shock, like cold water to the face. He had thought Owen had guessed the truth; perhaps he had hoped Owen was past caring. Clearly he was wrong on both fronts. “She will have the baby sometime in February, my mother writes.” He could not bring himself to say more; he could only watch, heart pounding, as Owen’s lips moved slowly, counting the months. Owen stilled; he had reached the inevitable conclusion. He seemed to shrink in on himself, head bowed and shoulders curled in, as if he could protect himself now from a blow that had fallen the moment Tom left Trewebury for the first time after their engagement. “It was after,” Owen whispered. “After he — after — oh goddess, I’m going to be sick —” Owen lurched out of his chair and stumbled toward the door. Arthur jumped up and followed, catching him before he reached it and pulling him into his arms. Owen sagged against his chest and hid his face there. Arthur’s surge of joy at Owen’s unthinking acceptance of the comfort he offered had a bitter edge. Every day, every week with no mention of Tom and no signs of unhappiness from Owen had pushed Arthur closer to real hope: that Tom was forgotten, that Arthur could someday earn the love Tom had thrown away. That hope felt hollow, now. Still, he stroked Owen’s hair and whispered what comfort he could into his ear. Owen stopped shaking after a little while, and he stepped back, wiping at his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, quite subdued. “I don’t know why that should take me by surprise, after everything. I feel so stupid. I am so stupid. He must have laughed at me. I wouldn’t blame you for laughing at me.” “The last thing I’m inclined to do is laugh,” Arthur said, with feeling. “Have some tea and think no more about it.” Owen allowed himself to be led back to the table, and he obediently sipped at the fresh cup Arthur fixed for him. He stared abstractedly at the table. Whatever he saw, it obviously wasn’t the teapot. “You ought to invite them,” he said suddenly. He set his cup down with a click and squared his shoulders. “We ought to invite them.” Pride rose up in him for Owen and his unbending sense of what was right. His chest ached a little with the strength of it. Good gods, but he loved the lad. And Owen’s use of the plural, encompassing him and Arthur in one entity, thawed a little of the chill misery that had settled as they sat in silence. “I certainly won’t insist on it.” He laid his hand down palm-up, and the thaw turned to a full-on melt as Owen laid his hand on top without hesitation, squeezing Arthur’s fingers gently. “If you had rather not, we’ll not mention it again.” In point of fact, Arthur hadn’t decided yet, when Owen came in the room, if he meant to mention it at all. He wisely kept that to himself. “I had much rather not. But this baby will be your heir, won’t he? If he’s a he, that is.” “He could be. But my sister’s boy is just as much my blood.” He hesitated, but he had to be honest in this. “I will want to know the child, though. He will be my nephew, or she will be my niece. I don’t need to see Tom and Caroline now. But I will eventually, even if you’d prefer not to accompany me.” “Lydia’s son isn’t a Drake, though.” Damn the way Owen could see right through him. “It’s important to you, isn’t it? To have an heir who bears your name.” Owen’s tone was free of reproach, but Arthur pressed his hand and hastened to reassure him all the same. “You know I didn’t want a wife. You know that. Your blessing will ensure that anyone who inherits will have a long life, good health, and good fortune, and that’s worth more than a name.” The tremulous smile that earned him was worth more than the long life, good health, and good fortune, too. It was everything Arthur wanted in the world, and he leaned over to kiss the upturned corner of Owen’s mouth. “You do want them to visit, don’t you?” Owen asked. “Honestly. You want to see them.” He did, and if it had been only himself at home he would have invited them already. Tom’s behavior might have set him permanently far lower in Arthur’s esteem, but he would overlook it in order to get to know the new members of his family. With Owen there…that complicated matters. The thought of Tom and Owen in the same house made his flesh crawl with anger and jealousy and fear. But it was almost inevitable, sooner or later. Tom accompanied by his pregnant wife was least likely to stir Owen’s tender feelings. This would be for the best — so long as it didn’t make Owen unhappy. Jealous and selfish he might be, but not thoughtless. “Yes, I do,” he said. “Only if you don’t mind, though. Truly.” There was the briefest of pauses before Owen said, “Write and invite them, then. And let me know when to expect them.” Arthur rose, bent to press a quick kiss to Owen’s lips, and went to the study to write to Tom.