The Duchess War
Page 75
“Not a mess.” Robert stepped closer. “Between you and me, I got everything—the title, the fortune. I’ve made up the difference as best I can. The least I can do is make sure you have a little freedom.”
Oliver cocked his head and looked at him. His nose wrinkled again, this time in confusion. “That’s what you think? You think that between the two of us, you got the better deal, that I was left with nothing?”
It wasn’t an opinion. It was a fact. He’d given his brother as much as the other man would take, but Oliver was still fighting to secure his position in society.
“Never mind,” Robert said.
“No, I won’t brush it off with a never mind. You really think that you were born with more than I was?”
“I know I was.”
Oliver turned away, his shoulders stiff. “Think again, Robert. Think again. I wouldn’t trade what I have—cell, lice, and all—for all your fortune.”
“And what is it you have that is so valuable?”
“I have a family that loves me.”
Those words hit Robert hard. He’d just begun to hope for the possibility of happiness, only to have it wrested from him. He couldn’t seem to draw breath. He felt as if he’d been struck in the stomach, struck hard enough to send his lungs into spasms.
He looked up at his brother standing before him, his face in half-profile. What little light there was glinted off his glasses, illuminated his bright hair.
It wasn’t just Oliver he saw behind those cold iron bars, but everyone who cared about him—gruff, menacing Mr. Marshall, the stately Mrs. Marshall, three sisters, an aunt, two nephews… and reflected in the light of his spectacles, a brother.
A brother he’d found at twelve, one who had adopted him with a cheerful happiness that had shocked Robert. Oliver had taught him everything he knew about being part of a family.
“Yes,” Robert said, his voice a little hoarse. “Well. As it turns out, I have a family that loves me, too. And I’m not about to abandon him.”
He put his hand up to the iron bars.
“I have lice,” Oliver reminded him.
“Shut up and take my hand.”
It was an awkward handclasp they shared, an iron bar between their palms, but Robert wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
“Let me do this for you,” he said. “Because when we met at Eton, you could have knocked me down and kicked me in the ribs, and instead you chose to be my brother.”
“Also,” Oliver said brightly, “your latest source of contagion.”
Robert laughed. “I have two gallons of carbon oil waiting for you already. I can spare a pint to douse my fingers, if necessary.”
A throat cleared behind him, and Robert turned. What little humor he’d found turned to ash.
He didn’t know how long the woman had been standing there. He’d seen her once before, more than a decade ago, but that one time had been enough. She was burned on his memory.
Mrs. Marshall was far shorter than her son. Her chestnut hair had a little more white in it than when last he’d seen her, but it only made her seem all the more regal. They looked at each other across the room, like two gazelles scenting each other across a meadow—watching, watching, watching, hoping that nothing would hunt them down.
“I’m sorry,” Robert said. “I’m going now.” He slid past her, giving her as wide a berth as he could without actually flattening himself against the wall. He went out the door into the courtyard. Plaster and timber rose two stories above him, shielding them from the late autumn sun. It was cold; he drew on gloves, pulled his hat down over his ears.
And just as he was readying himself to go, footsteps sounded again, and Mrs. Marshall came out of the holding room. Their eyes met again across the courtyard; Robert dropped his.
Ever so slowly, she crossed the paving stones to him.
“Mrs. Marshall.” He could scarcely breathe. “I’m so sorry.”
“Your Grace.” She looked at him and then immediately looked away.
“No honorifics.” He folded himself onto a bench at the edge of the courtyard. It was wet from last night’s rain; he could feel the damp seeping through his trousers. But he didn’t want to tower over her. Bad enough that he’d encountered her at all during this time and brought to her mind those other memories. “You, of all people, shouldn’t be Your Grace-ing me.”
She turned to him. He studied the paving stones beneath his feet.
“After what the collective dukes of Clermont have done to you and yours,” he said quietly, “we don’t deserve the respect. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that Oliver—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It most certainly is. My brother is awaiting trial for an act that I committed, for no reason except that they can’t get at me. If that isn’t my fault, I don’t know what is.” He contemplated the walls. “But I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to him. I won’t.”
She stood before him a few moments longer. He kept his head down, aware of her every breath.
And then, very slowly, she brushed her skirts to the side and sat gingerly on the stone bench next to him. Six inches away, but still next to him. “You’ve been a good friend to my son.”
“I’ve been his brother.” He still didn’t look at her.
“He talked about you all the time when he was home from school. You and Sebastian Malheur—but especially you. Needless to say, Mr. Marshall and I found it rather alarming. But he didn’t talk about a boy who seemed like a younger version of your father. You sounded thoughtful and quiet, two things that the Duke of Clermont never managed to be. I always wished I had been better prepared all those years ago. When Oliver spoke of you, you sounded so sweet that I had envisioned a completely different boy. To walk in the room and see you looking at me—with his eyes, and his nose, and his mouth—I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t even really come back to myself until I was half a mile away.”
“There’s no need to explain. I know what my father did. If I were you, I wouldn’t be able to look at me, either.”
“Oliver said after, he thought I’d hurt your feelings.”
Robert shook his head. “There is no room for my feelings in this. You were wronged. It’s not your responsibility to extend the olive branch, but mine, to get out of your way. To give to you what little comfort you can find.”
Oliver cocked his head and looked at him. His nose wrinkled again, this time in confusion. “That’s what you think? You think that between the two of us, you got the better deal, that I was left with nothing?”
It wasn’t an opinion. It was a fact. He’d given his brother as much as the other man would take, but Oliver was still fighting to secure his position in society.
“Never mind,” Robert said.
“No, I won’t brush it off with a never mind. You really think that you were born with more than I was?”
“I know I was.”
Oliver turned away, his shoulders stiff. “Think again, Robert. Think again. I wouldn’t trade what I have—cell, lice, and all—for all your fortune.”
“And what is it you have that is so valuable?”
“I have a family that loves me.”
Those words hit Robert hard. He’d just begun to hope for the possibility of happiness, only to have it wrested from him. He couldn’t seem to draw breath. He felt as if he’d been struck in the stomach, struck hard enough to send his lungs into spasms.
He looked up at his brother standing before him, his face in half-profile. What little light there was glinted off his glasses, illuminated his bright hair.
It wasn’t just Oliver he saw behind those cold iron bars, but everyone who cared about him—gruff, menacing Mr. Marshall, the stately Mrs. Marshall, three sisters, an aunt, two nephews… and reflected in the light of his spectacles, a brother.
A brother he’d found at twelve, one who had adopted him with a cheerful happiness that had shocked Robert. Oliver had taught him everything he knew about being part of a family.
“Yes,” Robert said, his voice a little hoarse. “Well. As it turns out, I have a family that loves me, too. And I’m not about to abandon him.”
He put his hand up to the iron bars.
“I have lice,” Oliver reminded him.
“Shut up and take my hand.”
It was an awkward handclasp they shared, an iron bar between their palms, but Robert wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
“Let me do this for you,” he said. “Because when we met at Eton, you could have knocked me down and kicked me in the ribs, and instead you chose to be my brother.”
“Also,” Oliver said brightly, “your latest source of contagion.”
Robert laughed. “I have two gallons of carbon oil waiting for you already. I can spare a pint to douse my fingers, if necessary.”
A throat cleared behind him, and Robert turned. What little humor he’d found turned to ash.
He didn’t know how long the woman had been standing there. He’d seen her once before, more than a decade ago, but that one time had been enough. She was burned on his memory.
Mrs. Marshall was far shorter than her son. Her chestnut hair had a little more white in it than when last he’d seen her, but it only made her seem all the more regal. They looked at each other across the room, like two gazelles scenting each other across a meadow—watching, watching, watching, hoping that nothing would hunt them down.
“I’m sorry,” Robert said. “I’m going now.” He slid past her, giving her as wide a berth as he could without actually flattening himself against the wall. He went out the door into the courtyard. Plaster and timber rose two stories above him, shielding them from the late autumn sun. It was cold; he drew on gloves, pulled his hat down over his ears.
And just as he was readying himself to go, footsteps sounded again, and Mrs. Marshall came out of the holding room. Their eyes met again across the courtyard; Robert dropped his.
Ever so slowly, she crossed the paving stones to him.
“Mrs. Marshall.” He could scarcely breathe. “I’m so sorry.”
“Your Grace.” She looked at him and then immediately looked away.
“No honorifics.” He folded himself onto a bench at the edge of the courtyard. It was wet from last night’s rain; he could feel the damp seeping through his trousers. But he didn’t want to tower over her. Bad enough that he’d encountered her at all during this time and brought to her mind those other memories. “You, of all people, shouldn’t be Your Grace-ing me.”
She turned to him. He studied the paving stones beneath his feet.
“After what the collective dukes of Clermont have done to you and yours,” he said quietly, “we don’t deserve the respect. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that Oliver—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It most certainly is. My brother is awaiting trial for an act that I committed, for no reason except that they can’t get at me. If that isn’t my fault, I don’t know what is.” He contemplated the walls. “But I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to him. I won’t.”
She stood before him a few moments longer. He kept his head down, aware of her every breath.
And then, very slowly, she brushed her skirts to the side and sat gingerly on the stone bench next to him. Six inches away, but still next to him. “You’ve been a good friend to my son.”
“I’ve been his brother.” He still didn’t look at her.
“He talked about you all the time when he was home from school. You and Sebastian Malheur—but especially you. Needless to say, Mr. Marshall and I found it rather alarming. But he didn’t talk about a boy who seemed like a younger version of your father. You sounded thoughtful and quiet, two things that the Duke of Clermont never managed to be. I always wished I had been better prepared all those years ago. When Oliver spoke of you, you sounded so sweet that I had envisioned a completely different boy. To walk in the room and see you looking at me—with his eyes, and his nose, and his mouth—I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t even really come back to myself until I was half a mile away.”
“There’s no need to explain. I know what my father did. If I were you, I wouldn’t be able to look at me, either.”
“Oliver said after, he thought I’d hurt your feelings.”
Robert shook his head. “There is no room for my feelings in this. You were wronged. It’s not your responsibility to extend the olive branch, but mine, to get out of your way. To give to you what little comfort you can find.”
