by Cari Hislop
“Thomas…” All eyes turned to look at the Duchess. “…if you must antagonise your brother have the courtesy to wait until he is in comparable health.” Geoffrey ogled his mother in shock before turning to stare at his brother who looked equally stunned by the unprecedented reproof.
“As you wish Madam, I had not realised he was so delicate. May I ask my brother what sort of condition his health is in? I would not wish to upset him.” The Duchess raised a disbelieving eyebrow and continued gracefully eating her food. Thomas dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned towards Geoffrey. “Sophia sings your praises and now the Duchess defends you; if you think I’m going to join the choir think again.” Geoffrey’s stunned expression slowly transformed into one of keen amusement. “What’s so funny?”
“I’ve always envied your lovely tenor. Thomas looked at Geoffrey with suspicion. “It’s true, I’ve always wished I could sing like you.” A warm feeling filled Geoffrey chest as his older brother visibly struggled with the complement. He’d never realised kindness could be so disarming.
“He’s right Thomas; you have a lovely voice.” Sophia reached out to squeeze her brother’s arm. “It’s been ages since we’ve heard you sing. Perhaps after dinner you’ll perform a few songs? I’ll play for you.”
“Yes…sniff…let’s hear you sing; it’s better than…sniff…picking our teeth.” Thomas looked more bewildered by the attention. He scowled at his brother, but Geoffrey was smiling at his food.
Geoffrey’s shoulders were almost relaxed when his Aunt looked up from her apple tart. “Have you heard what Lady Penelope has been saying? It’s utterly ridiculous of course, but I suppose considering certain circumstances it might be possible.” Geoffrey tensed back into a knot, his fork hanging in midair as he was forcibly reminded of the previous day. “She says Your Grace proposed yesterday afternoon and that she’s refused you. I dare say you’re not the most virtuous of men, but she’s given a rather lurid list of reasons for spurning a ducal coronet. We all know about her brother of course, everyone knows you beat him senseless; you probably spared the family destitution. I’m sure I don’t know why she doesn’t thank you for it.”
“I did not ask her to marry me. I asked her forgiveness for ruining her…family. Can we speak of something else?”
“Why Geoffrey, you sound upset. Are you afraid Mrs Spencer will learn of your many thoughtless ejaculations? I remember hearing a rumour…”
“Thomas!” The Duchess had a steely look in her eyes. “Geoffrey’s sins are not suitable topics for the dining room when ladies are present. Perhaps you’ll tell us about your travels? What did you think of Italy? Did you find a suitable pair of tapestries?” She briefly met her son’s thankful gaze and returned to her lemon ice. Thomas willingly shared some of his more salubrious adventures, leaving Geoffrey to savour the sound of his mother using his name in-between unpleasant memories of the previous day. Standing abruptly, he excused himself. Strolling through the hall towards the stairs he was approached by a footman holding a letter.
“This arrived by special post while you were sleeping Your Grace.” Geoffrey took the letter and bit back a blistering reproof. He could have been reading his angel’s letter instead of staring at the clock for hours. “Why the devil didn’t you bring it to me?”
“The Duchess didn’t want your sleep disturbed.” Geoffrey rushed up the stairs to his study feeling giddy. Could his mother really care? He looked at the picture of his smiling friend, took a deep breath and tore open the letter.
Dearest Geoffrey,
Can my plain features bring anyone such pleasure? If thoughts can be traced onto paper, I hope you can see in my sketched eyes what I feel for my dearest friend. I’m sorry your head is still hurting. I wish I could ease the pain. I can only advise you not to do anything that will cause you extra pain. Remember, yelling will only make your head ache and convince your servants you’re a tyrant.
Could you possibly miss me more than I miss you? I long to see your pale blue eyes; to have you close enough to reach out and know that you’re not just a lovely dream. If you find yourself in my corner of the Kingdom I’d be very pleased to receive you. I have every faith that you’ll be a perfect gentleman. I pray this letter reaches you quickly that I may have the honour of a visit from my friend that much sooner.
Sincerely,
Tolerance
Geoffrey collapsed into his chair and pressed his lips to the precious paper. He read the letter three more times before accepting that she’d finally given him permission to step back into her sunlight. The letter fell into his lap as he stared at her picture. He could be on the road within the hour. The cold emptiness in his chest was filling up with something warm, something that made him smile. His birthday was four weeks away, but there was the matter of his gift for Tolerance tying him to London. If everything went well he hoped to sign the legal papers making him her sister’s guardian as soon as they fell on his desk, but he didn’t know when that would be. He bit his lip and wondered if he could survive another four weeks in darkness. If he could wait it might prove to her that he was changing, that he could control his passions, but would she come to his ball? He folded her letter and tucked it into a pocket. Picking up his quill, he held it over the inkwell. He’d have a trunk packed just in case…no he’d have the carriage waiting. If she didn’t attend his birthday ball, he’d be on the road before the clock struck nine. With the decision made all he had to do was invite her and hope that she’d attend. His quill scratched across the paper until he felt he’d said everything he could say. His signet pressed into the cooling wax sealed his future with hope.
Clutching the letter, Geoffrey returned downstairs and placed it in the footman’s hand, “I want this sent off first thing in the morning by an express postal coach.” The servant respectfully bowed, but as soon as Geoffrey turned his back the letter was tossed on top of the large pile of letters and forgotten as the footman rushed to complete his nightly chores.
Geoffrey sauntered back into the drawing room where his brother and sister were singing a duet. Catching his mother’s eye, he nodded his head in acknowledgement. Smiling he sat down and half listened to the music as he daydreamed of his birthday ball. He clapped politely with the other listeners as the musical entertainment finished and accepted a cup of chocolate from the footman.
Even his brother sitting down opposite couldn’t dilute his bliss. “Geoffrey’s been sipping some sort of happy-potion while we finished dinner. I hope you don’t smile at your friend like that, it makes you look like something out of a nightmare.”
“Did you receive your letter Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey’s chest felt so full of happiness he was sure it would burst. “Yes, thank you Mother.” It was the Duchess’s turn to look startled.
“What do you think the virtuous Mrs Spencer could have written to put such a smile on Geoffrey’s face? Oh come now little brother, where’s your frightful smile gone? Have I upset you?”
“Mrs Spencer is a virtuous woman and you’ll give her due respect or I’ll call you out.”
“I’m trembling. Who’d protect her from wicked men if you died at the end of my blade? Perhaps I could persuade her…” Thomas lowered his voice to a whisper so the Duchess wouldn’t overhear. “…that one bastard is as good as another.”
Geoffrey felt his emotions boil as he glared at his brother, but he took a deep breath and tried to look at the man sitting opposite as his mother had described him earlier, a first born son with no birthright. The truth burst into Geoffrey’s brain like fireworks. His brother was jealous. Geoffrey sat back and stared at his sneering sibling. There was bitterness in the corners of his brother’s mouth and pain imbedded in pale blue eyes. Holding his brother’s gaze, he sipped his hot chocolate and wondered if life had been more difficult for Thomas than the large man let on.
***
Thomas cringed as his younger brother’s eyes filled with pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all Geoffrey’s.
The ever present shame burned in his throat. He sneered at his brother as he jumped to his feet. “I hope you rot in hell.”
“Thomas? What’s wrong?” He ignored the Duchess and stalked from the room before his emotions betrayed him. Alone in the hall, Thomas shrugged on his overcoat and waved the footmen away in irritation. The last thing he wanted was his embarrassing emotions witnessed by backstabbing servants. Pulling on his hat he caught sight of the letter addressed to Mrs Spencer. He looked back down the hall to see it was empty. Impulsively he slipped the letter into his pocket.
Half an hour later Thomas was sitting alone in front of a fire in his rented bachelor rooms. His manservant had gone to bed. There was no one to witness his angry fingers tearing open his brother’s love letter.
Dearest Angel,
I sit here overwhelmed by your goodness. If my writing is abysmal it’s because my hand won’t stop shaking. My insides feel warm just knowing that I’ll soon be basking in your sunlight. I give you my word, tarnished though it may be, that I will never again forget my manners. Being banished from your sunlight has been worse than being denied food. The past few months have been a frozen agony not knowing when or if ever I’d see you again.
I want to order my carriage and rush to your side, but obligations tie me to London for the next few weeks. Pray believe me, I’d rather be on my knees in your drawing room than anywhere else on earth. I shall live in hope that I will at least see you in one month’s time at my birthday ball. Please come. Your presence is the only thing that will take my mind off the depressing fact I’m well over half way to the grave. It will begin at 6:30, but you may arrive at any time convenient for you. My house will be filled to the attic with family. Just thinking about it makes my head ache. Most of the guests will be in London for Sophia’s wedding which takes place that afternoon. I’m trying to be accommodating, though I flatly refused to share either my bed or my room with some fossilised cousin who snores in his sleep. At least I offered the Duchess use of The Ancient House. When she dryly commented on the lack of furnishing, it’s completely empty, I told her we could hire trundle beds. If the wretches can’t afford to make their own arrangements what do they expect? I’m not going to give up my bed to sleep on some bug infested straw filled sack.
I’m afraid there is only one person I’d give up my bed for. Unfortunately, I don’t think she’d use it even if I was a thousand miles from the said piece of furniture. Forgive my ranting Sunshine; I’m just jealous it isn’t my wedding they’re coming to celebrate, but knowing I’m back in your good graces will make the love-birds company more bearable.
I hope you’ll come to the ball. Supper will be served at 9:00 and at 11:00 there will be a private performance of Etherege’s ‘The Man of Mode’. The Duchess chose it. I think she’s laughing at me; one of the main characters wears pale blue ribbons. She’s dug out some moth eaten rags from the court of Charles II and insisted the actors wear them. I never realised she was so thorough. At 1:30 there will be more dancing until the early hours.
Please say you’ll come and make my birthday special. If you wish, I’ll ask the Duchess to reserve a few rooms at a nearby hotel for you. Your presence will make it so much easier to be civil to my relations. I could have strangled several of them this evening. My brother, Thomas, is back from Italy and being his usual odious self. I wish he’d stayed there. Just having to look at him across a room ties my stomach in knots. I don’t think he’s ever spoken a single pleasant word to me in my life, though the way the Duchess defends him he’s obviously pleasant enough to her. I wish my father’s beloved whore had accepted his marriage proposal as soon as he got her with child. Thomas would have made a better Duke and father might not have hated me so much. I might have grown up a better man, worthy to beg… Angel, I pray you will…no, I can’t write it. I’ll leave those words for another day and pray that when I speak them I shall have more courage and faith than I do now. I wish I could press my lips to your hand and express my gratitude for your kindness, for your faith in me. If I were to lose everything but your friendship, I’d consider myself the richest of men.
Your adoring and most obedient servant,
Geoffrey
Thomas’s felt his cheeks burn as his eyes tore away from the paper and cursed himself for picking it up. He wished he’d never seen the blasted letter; it was one thing to assume your brother hated you, it was another to read that he thought you odious. And when had the Duchess defended her husband’s bastard? At least he wasn’t the only one jealous of Sophia’s happiness. He’d been away for five months and she hadn’t given him her whole attention for five measly minutes. Even while they were singing she’d smiled at Bamford. She was going to move away and he’d never get to see her unless he tramped up to Bamford’s pile and put up with a hundred screaming brats. She’d have her arms full of babies and no time for her brother ever again. Geoffrey, the inconsiderate worm, had ruined everything. Sophia had promised that if she never married she’d come live with him. It was the reason he’d never given her a portion of his inheritance. A few more years and his wretched ruin would have finally felt like a home, but now she was going to marry and he wouldn’t have anyone who cared for him. He’d end up like the worm, begging some plain woman to keep him company. He threw down the letter and paced back and forth across the room and stopped to stare down at the pathetic looking piece of paper. It looked sad, as if it were pleading to be sent off. He swore loudly as he bent over and scooped up the letter. Carrying it over to the mantelpiece he carefully started picking off the wax seal. He’d use a fresh glob of wax and the woman would never know the difference. Thomas swore loudly as a small piece of wax stuck fast causing him to tear the letter. Furious with himself for trying to send it on he scrunched it into a ball and hurled it into the fire making him feel worse. Unwanted thoughts crowded into his brain. He didn’t care if the upstart Mrs Spencer didn’t learn about the ball until it was too late. He didn’t care if the Duchess cared about him. He didn’t care if his brother hated him. He didn’t care! A long shuddering breath mocked his attempts to deceive himself.
Chapter 27
Laughter and music filled every corner of the house. In every direction people with jet black hair mingled with blondes and brunettes. Lost in a sea of similar faces Geoffrey had propped himself against one of the pink marble pillars in the ballroom and stood there with his arms crossed waiting for his friend. He scowled as another group of children stopped in front of him to whisper as they stared with fascinated horror at their notorious relation. A little girl stepped forward and tugged his black sleeve. Looking down at the miniature person with black hair, Geoffrey couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever have a daughter. The thought of children brought to mind his friend. Was she coming? Was she on her way or had she decided he couldn’t be trusted even in a family crowd? The thought made his insides drop and his scowl deepen. “Yes?”
“Escuze me Your Grace…I’ve wagered Willy that you don’t know how to dance and that’s why you’ve been standing like a statue. Say you don’t dance and I’ll win a pound.”
“Ladies shouldn’t wager it’s vulgar.”
“Mamma’s wagered Papa that you’ll be dead by Christmas. We’ll get to live here and you’ll be in the ground. Mamma says she’ll dress the servants in a sensible brown. It wears better.”
Geoffrey took in a deep breath through his nose and slowly exhaled. “Away hell-cat, and leave me in peace!”
His roar made the little girl step back with an affronted expression, but she wasn’t finished. “My Mamma says I’m an angel and angels come from heaven. She says you’re a devil and devils come from Hell. Hell stinks, that means you stink like an unwashed chamber pot.”
The group of little people burst into hysterical laughter and rushed away to torment someone else as Geoffrey snarled after them. Pulling out his pocket-watch he found it was gone eight-thirty. His heart slumped as he forced himself to acknowledge that Tolerance wasn’t coming. He rubbed his eyes and
hoped the pain in his head would put a clamp on his imagination. Four silent weeks had incubated every irrational fear; she’d fallen in love with her Vicar. She’d gone to Paris to see the sights and had been kidnapped and forced to marry some fat sweaty Frenchman. She’d moved to Ireland to marry some drunken lord who’d hurt her. He tightened his arms across his chest; if she didn’t appear by nine he’d calmly leave the house, get into the waiting carriage and ride like the devil to her home in the country. She’d have written if she planned to change her address. She’d have sent a note, unless she was dead…
