“Make her understand that you don’t want to marry one of these girls, and make her understand why.” Maxen’s stare was still oddly intense, and Tristan appreciated the concern, but it was all a bit much in the middle of the night.
“I’ve told her we’re fine on our own, that I don’t need a wife for any of the reasons she thinks I do. And that Bria will be just fine without a stepmother.”
“That isn’t what I mean and you know it.”
Tristan threw his hands up. “What do you mean, then?”
“I mean that you aren’t going to marry one of the girls Mother is parading in front of you. If you marry again, it isn’t going to be a woman at all.”
It took Tristan a moment to realize exactly what Maxen said and another to find his voice. “Maxen?”
Maxen only smiled, kind, his stare much less intense. “You thought I didn’t know? Of course I did. I saw the way you were with Prince Amory, years ago, before he married Prince Philip. And you never really looked at girls the way I did. So I assumed you preferred men. But then you married Dariela.”
“That was for the family. Father wanted me to.”
“Father wanted you to be happy in your life, Tristan,” Maxen said, his voice gentle, as if he knew the import of what he said and the effect his words would have on Tristan. He probably did. “He wouldn’t have cared, not really, if you married a man instead of a woman. He might have been upset if you left the business behind and ran off to be a juggler or something like that, but not because you loved a man instead of a woman.”
Amory had told him the same, or something similar, before Tristan married Dariela, but Tristan hadn’t listened. Amory was his best friend, but he didn’t really know Father. Now Maxen was telling him the same thing Amory had, and Tristan couldn’t ignore it any longer. Because Maxen knew their father, had been raised by him with nearly the same expectations as Tristan. And perhaps that should have been some indication of their father’s feelings. Yes, Tristan was the oldest son, the one expected to take over the family’s business, and as head of the family itself, but his father had never treated Tristan’s younger brothers differently. They had all been expected to learn the business, to work and be responsible members of the family.
He hadn’t been holding the fate and future of their business on his shoulders alone, as much as he’d put that on himself. His father had loved him and wanted him to be happy. Tristan was hit with a second realization, almost more of a blow than the first, that his father wouldn’t like to see him as he was now, struggling under the weight of his obligations and his mother’s demands.
He slumped back on the couch, staring at Maxen with no idea what to say.
Maxen sat forward and gripped Tristan’s arm, his hold firm, anchoring. “You married her because Father wanted you to. Not because you wanted to or because you loved her.”
“I liked her. But, no, I didn’t love her. Father wanted me to marry. He suggested her, arranged the whole thing. I never even thought to refuse.” Hadn’t thought he could. He’d believed his father was telling him to marry Dariela. Somehow when Father was dying, with the grief and the pressure of the additional responsibilities about to land on Tristan’s shoulders, he’d lost sight entirely of who his father was.
When Father had found out about Tristan carrying on with Amory, he hadn’t been angry. He’d only asked if Tristan had an understanding with Amory, which Tristan had denied immediately, downplaying the entire affair. His father had nodded and changed the subject, telling Tristan about their upcoming trip. Tristan had been too nervous—too scared—to notice anything about his father’s demeanor at the time, and he didn’t remember much of it now. Except that he hadn’t seemed upset, not in hindsight.
Could he have told his father then and avoided a marriage he hadn’t wanted? Perhaps then Dariela wouldn’t be dead. Etan’s face floated into his mind. He and Etan had been closer before Tristan married. He’d hoped for closer still, and maybe would have gotten it if he’d never married. But then he wouldn’t have Bria either, and he loved her far too much to wish her away.
And really, he had no guarantee anything would have happened with Etan. They hadn’t gone to bed in all the time before Tristan’s marriage, and the man had dropped out of Tristan’s life with barely a word after. And now the image in Tristan’s mind’s eye was of the cold fury he’d seen on Etan’s face that night.
“I’m sorry, Tristan,” Maxen said, and Tristan had to think for a second about what Maxen was sorry for—the image of Etan’s anger was so vivid, it nearly obliterated everything that came before. “I wish you had said something to me.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to say.”
“I’m still sorry.” He squeezed Tristan’s arm. “But I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to let Mother push you into another marriage you don’t want. If you marry again, you should choose a man you want, not a woman Mother thinks will make an appropriate wife and stepmother.”
“Thank you, Maxen. I appreciate that.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it. But will you listen to me and act on it?”
He jerked back, the tone of his brother’s voice shocking in its sharpness.
“Tristan, you need to think of yourself. Don’t marry again just for Mother.”
“I don’t plan on it. Bria and I are fine on our own.”
“Just don’t let her put pressure on you. And let me help you too. With business matters.”
“You do help—”
“Let me help more. Let me take on a share. I’m old enough, and I want to help.”
Tristan stared at his brother. He hadn’t expected such vehemence, but he didn’t know why. Finally he nodded. “Yes, of course you can.”
“Good.” Maxen sighed and rose. “Now it’s late, and I should get home.”
Tristan got to his feet as well. “It’s too late to be out. Stay here tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s not far, I can make it fine.”
“It’s late. You’re tired. Just stay.”
“All right. Thank you.”
Tristan gestured for Maxen to precede him out of the room and then extinguished the candles in the parlor with a wave of his hand. In the hall, he did the same to the branch of candles on the table and created a little ball of light in the palm of his hand, about all his minimal Talent could manage.
He led Maxen up the stairs and down the corridor, stepping around the dog who was in his usual spot in front of Bria’s door. He brought his brother to a bedchamber next to his own and made sure he was comfortable before retreating to his own bedchamber where he flopped backward onto the large bed.
What just happened?
He couldn’t quite believe the conversation he and Maxen had just had. It had been entirely unexpected. He hadn’t realized Maxen had even noticed his preferences; he needed to ask if his other brothers knew. Whether they knew didn’t matter, he supposed, but he would like to know nevertheless. His sister probably hadn’t realized anything, nor his mother. He hoped his mother hadn’t, because if she had, it was needlessly cruel for her to keep throwing women at him. Which made it all the more important that he follow his brother’s advice, somehow, and stop his mother from doing this. Without hurting her, if at all possible. She had lost her husband as he had lost his father.
A realization perhaps even more shocking was that Maxen had seen how overwhelmed Tristan was in other areas. Or perhaps he hadn’t, not entirely. Tristan hoped he hadn’t, at least. He didn’t want anyone to know. But Maxen had seen enough to tell Tristan not to take so much on his shoulders, to let Maxen do more. And he would, but not because he was overwhelmed—because it was the right thing for him to do. Their father had spent time teaching all of them, not only Tristan. As Tristan had been reminded that night, Father expected them all to be a part of the business. Tristan wondered if Father might have hoped for involvement from Selene as well if Mother would have allowed it.
He would teach his daughter about their family’s b
usiness. He wouldn’t stop her from being a part of it, from running it someday if she wanted.
But that was a long way off. For now, he would accept his brother’s help and make certain to continue to teach and involve his younger brothers as well, just as their father had. And he wouldn’t let them see how out of control he felt while he did.
Finally, he extinguished the little globes of light he’d been absently circling in the air above his head while he thought. He rose and stripped off his clothes. After washing up quickly, he returned to his bed, this time climbing in under the blankets and laying his head on his pillow. It was far later than he’d intended to seek his bed, and morning would come too soon. He needed sleep, but sleep was elusive. He thought he’d put his worries to rest, at least for the moment, but his mind still whirled.
And it was Etan’s face, so inexplicably furious, that occupied his spinning thoughts for more time than it should have before he finally fell into sleep.
THE NEXT morning, far earlier than he would have liked, Tristan woke confused and still thinking of Etan. And annoyed on top of those two things. About those two things. Also quite irritated that Etan had looked at him the way he had last night and that Tristan couldn’t forget it. Knowing more sleep was unlikely to come, he dragged himself out of bed, disgusted with himself and Etan and the early morning sun shining in his window.
After bathing and dressing, Tristan was only marginally more refreshed, but he left his bedchamber anyway. He went to the nursery first, drawn by the thought of time with his daughter. He hadn’t been able to rock her to sleep the night before because of the ill-fated trip to the theater, a loss that annoyed him even more now that he hadn’t gotten to enjoy the play. He doubted his mother even realized she deprived him of that time with Bria. She didn’t seem to think or believe he would do something like put his daughter to bed himself.
He shook off annoyance as best he could and focused on the cooing baby the nursemaid put in his arms. In the little white dress trimmed in yellow ribbons, Bria looked like a ray of morning sunshine herself, and unlike the sunlight that had so rudely awakened him from much-craved sleep, he was happy to see Bria. He spent a while with her as the house woke up around them and the scent of breakfast cooking drifted upstairs.
He gave her back to her nursemaid reluctantly, even though he would see her more later. He had no plans for the evening; perhaps he could have a quiet one at home with Bria. Sitting by the fire and reading with Bria sleeping against his chest, the weight of her there precious, had become one of his favorite ways to pass an evening.
Indigo trotted into the nursery as Tristan left. He glanced back to see the dog drop down to curl up near the crib, the nursemaid giving him a fond, if amused, look. She had been skeptical of letting the dog into the nursery at first, but she had allowed it when she saw he never tried to hurt the baby or even get too close. It was as if Indigo had elected himself Bria’s guardian.
Tristan shook his head. His dog spent more time with Bria now than he did with Tristan. Turning again, he strode down the stairs, more awake than he had been before and in a marginally more pleasant mood, though his irritation still lurked beneath the surface. He tried to ignore it, leaving it buried so he could start his day. A breakfast of warm pastry, fresh fruit, cheese, and meat was laid out for him on the table in the dining room. He was halfway through his meal when Maxen stumbled into the room, looking rumpled and half-asleep still. He poured a glass of juice and handed the sweet liquid to Maxen, who had never been a morning person, especially not after such a late night.
Maxen grunted his thanks, something he wouldn’t have been able to get away with had their mother been present, despite his being an adult, and dropped into a chair next to Tristan’s. After a moment spent gulping juice while Tristan looked on, Maxen reached for his food. Tristan refilled Maxen’s glass before turning back to his own plate. They ate in silence, something Tristan remembered well from their shared breakfasts growing up. But in those days there were often others at the table to fill some of the silence left by Maxen’s inability to manage complete sentences when he first woke up. Tristan rather pitied whoever married Maxen someday—the person was doomed to mornings of incoherence. Tristan didn’t mind the quiet. He was used to breakfast by himself these days, so another person at the table, however quiet, was a pleasant change.
A maid brought in the morning post as Maxen began to show signs of life. Tristan flicked through the letters while gauging his brother’s level of coherence. He finally chanced a question. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. Not long enough, though.” All the words were understandable even if they weren’t in complete sentences.
“You could have slept longer.” He didn’t ask if he or Bria had woken Maxen. The walls and doors were thick. Perhaps the curtains in Maxen’s bedchamber hadn’t been closed all the way like the ones in Tristan’s. “I wasn’t going to wake you.”
“I know. But if I don’t get home, Mother will be trying to call out the royal guard to find me.” Maxen grimaced. “You laugh. She would come here first with your connections to the palace.”
“Connections to the palace?” Tristan laughed harder to hear Maxen put his friendship with Amory in such terms.
Maxen nudged a missive in the pile between them. “Isn’t that the royal seal?”
It was, of course. The rearing cat set in red wax was unmistakable. “Probably just an invitation to something.”
“You’re getting invited to events at the palace. Royal connections.”
Tristan broke open the seal as he laughed again, though Maxen was probably right about their mother. An invitation, just as he thought, written in the looping, formal style of a royal scribe. Amory wouldn’t bother with such formality for a friendly note.
Maxen kept speaking. “You still laugh, but Mother puts quite a bit of store in those connections. You spent so much time at the palace, she was hoping you might have an understanding with the princess.”
Tristan whipped his head up so fast his neck actually popped. He stopped laughing. “You’re not serious.”
“I am completely serious.” Maxen seemed to be holding back laughter despite his words. “But I think she’s gotten over it.”
“Good. All I need is her trying to make a match with Princess Elodie.” He glanced back down at the invitation, finally looking to see what he was being invited to, and froze. A party for Etan’s birthday. Of course it was.
“I don’t think she’d actually do anything to push the match—at least not with anyone except you. She’d probably just bring the idea up to you so many times you’d be sick of it after a day.” Maxen paused. “Are you all right?”
He looked up from the invitation into his brother’s concerned gaze. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re staring at that as if it gravely offended you.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You were, and now you’re crumpling it.”
“What?” He looked down and sure enough, the heavy paper was crumpling as his fist closed around it. He hastily opened his hand and smoothed out the invitation again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“So what is it, then?” Maxen gestured toward the still-wrinkled paper.
“An invitation, as I thought.”
“To what? It had to be something upsetting for you to react like that.”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated. “Just a party. Amory and Prince Philip are hosting a birthday party for Etan. That’s all.”
Maxen raised a single brow, a gesture he’d inherited from their father. “I thought you were friends with Lord Etan.”
“I am.” Or he had been, once. Before Etan stopped coming around for no reason Tristan could see. And then there was last night and Etan’s anger.
“Odd way to react to an invitation to a friend’s party.”
Tristan had no desire to discuss this any further with Maxen. “Finish your breakfast.”
Maxen did as Tristan told him for once, but Tristan knew Maxen would ask about it again. Maxen was far too curious for his own good and persistent about it. Tristan should know—it was a trait they shared, even if Tristan wouldn’t admit it out loud. He didn’t want to think of his brother’s curiosity or his own, didn’t want to think about his brother’s persistent questioning because as he did he found himself getting more and more irritated again.
He needed to know why Etan had looked at him that way, with such fury.
After breakfast, Maxen left for home to reassure their mother he hadn’t gone missing in the night. He told Tristan he would see him at the offices later. Tristan told him to bring their younger brother, Renaud, when he was done with his classes, putting his promise of last night into practice.
Maxen was barely out the door when Tristan called for his horse to be readied. He would be leaving shortly as well—for the palace.
He would find out why Etan had looked at him the way he had the night before, and he might need to take out his irritation on someone as well. He knew in a detached way that he was being ridiculous assigning so much importance to a look that hadn’t lasted more than a moment, and very likely less time than that.
He should let it all go. He hardly saw Etan these days anyway. Yes, he would have to attend Etan’s birthday party—he couldn’t refuse an invitation from the palace even if his friend was the prince’s consort—but his mourning status would allow his appearance to be a brief one.
Even with that reasoning, he didn’t turn around.
He rode through streets just beginning to wake with the day’s activity. Business at the port would already be in full swing; it only slowed overnight. He liked the bustle of Jumelle and its port, liked the crowds and people who came from everywhere, and the diverse goods. He liked the architectural style, something quintessentially of Tournai yet touched by the influences of those who came from elsewhere and made the city their home.
Tristan enjoyed the countryside, the open spaces that allowed him to gallop, the rivers and the sea to swim in, but he wouldn’t want to live anywhere except Jumelle. The several months traveling with his father had shown him that. He’d loved seeing new places, meeting new people—and not just the attractive men, though he’d met a few of those—but he’d never been tempted to stay in any of those places. Jumelle was home.
The Scholar's Heart (Chronicles of Tournai Book 3) Page 7
