Kindred Hearts (27 page)

“That’s not really true, Tris,” Charles said gently. “It feels that way right now because you’re still weak—and trust me, I’ll be here to help you. But you’ll get past this, I promise.”

“Just get me past the wanting to put a bullet in my brain part, and that will help.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

Tristan was silent a moment, then sighed. “No. Not so much anymore. I want to get up and try and get my life back together. But right now I’ll settle for that soup you mentioned.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Devil a bit! Starving.”

Charles grinned at him. “That’s a good start.” He rose and leaned over the bed, lifting Tris into a sitting position with his back against the pile of pillows. Charlotte tucked the blankets around him, and he smiled his thanks.

“Did you need help with it?” she asked in concern. “It’s in a mug so it should be easier for you to hold.”

“Whose idea was that?” Tris asked.

“Charlie’s, of course. I think he’ll make a wonderful physician, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Tristan said, smiling at her. “You’d make a quite good nurse too, you know.”

“Oh, that’s too much work.” She shook her head. “I’ll only nurse my family.”

“Thank you.” Tristan’s voice was very soft.

She patted his hand affectionately and said, “Eat your soup. Charles has promised me a walk in the park this afternoon, but he won’t go until you’re settled.” Then she glanced up at her brother. “Come fetch me when you’re ready, Charlie,” and she went back through the sitting room door.

Charles set the tray on Tristan’s lap and sat on the bed beside him. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Tristan made a face. “Are you asking as my physician or my brother-in-law?”

“As your lover,” Charles said calmly.

Tristan’s eyes flashed to his, wide and startled. “Are we lovers?” he asked.

“In my mind,” Charles said. “What about yours?”

Lifting the mug to his lips in shaking hands, Tristan took a sip. “I suppose we are, if that’s what you’d call it. I’m still so confused about it—aren’t you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Charles said. “I know what I want, but if you need more time, or even don’t want to pursue this, just tell me.”

“No. No, I want this.” Tris set the mug down on the tray. “God, Charlie, I want this. But I’m terrified. Is that stupid?”

“No, of course not.” Charles chuckled. “You’ve had your life turned upside down. And you’ve spent the last half-year focused on one ambition, and now that’s changed—I hope!”

“It has, I think.” Tris raised his eyes to meet Charles’s. “I’m no less frightened now than I was before, but there’s not the, the despair I felt before. I felt so alone, so lost. But when I’m with you—I don’t feel like it’s so overwhelming. That maybe I can handle the things that scare me so much.”

“What scares you, Tris?”

Tris took another sip of broth. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m just afraid of everything. Sometimes it’s more specific. Sometimes it’s just knowing that people have expectations of me that I can never meet.” He swallowed hard, his fingers white around the mug. “That they will be disappointed in me, like my father is.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Charles asked quietly.

“My friends, acquaintances.” He hesitated, then went on, “Jamie. The new child.”

“I notice you don’t include Charlotte.”

Tristan snorted. “I can’t disappoint Charlotte because she already has no expectations. She knows me too well. Besides, she doesn’t really care. Oh, I think she’s fond of me, but she doesn’t care what I do. Anything I do just amuses her. She’s very restful that way. But others—Jamie, Gibs, Berks, the rest of the ton—they have expectations.”

“I think,” Charles said reassuringly, “that you’ll find that they actually don’t. That you’re imposing your own expectations of yourself on them. Jamie will love you simply because you’re you. Gibson and Berkeley aren’t that critical—sometimes I wonder if they have any critical faculties between them whatsoever. And why should you give a good goddamn about the rest of the ton? For Charlotte’s sake? She couldn’t care less what people think of her.” He regarded Tristan thoughtfully, then reached out and pushed the lock of dark hair off his forehead. “I think that the only one who has expectations of you is you.”

“God knows my father doesn’t,” Tristan said bitterly. “Or if he did, they’re entirely negative.”

“I don’t know your father, so I can’t say.”

Tristan was silent a long moment, then said, “You’ve read the journal you took from me.”

“Of course I haven’t!” Charles said indignantly. “Not more than the one page I read. I don’t pry.” Then he thought about it, and added with a tinge of embarrassment, “Not usually, anyway.”

Tristan laughed humorlessly. “Just the once, and I have to admit I’m glad you did. So much would never have happened—and so much might well have. But it’s all right. Aside from a few pages chronicling my obsession with a certain officer of the 14th, my journals are mostly just appointments and observations. I don’t care if you read them.”

“‘Journals’? Have you always kept one?”

Tristan shrugged. “Since I was a boy. They’re all in the drawer in my desk; the key’s on my watch chain. Read them if you’ve a mind to; they’re hardly exciting.”

“The one entry I read was quite exciting enough,” Charles said dryly.

“Well, if you want to know my father better—at least from my perspective, which I admit may be a little skewed, as he is quite respected by those who don’t know him—you may read about him in my journal,” Tristan said carelessly.

Charles glanced at him and saw a brief, anxious expression flicker across his face before he settled it into his usual Tristan casualness. “Now,” Tristan went on, “your sister is waiting for her walk. I’m sure Reston is hovering in the corridor waiting to come sit with me—no doubt it’s the highlight of his afternoon. Go away and come back when you and Lottie are all breathless and exhausted. I like when you come straight here from outside; the air smells so fresh and cold.” He gave Charles a quick smile. “I promise to be good for Reston. In fact, I think I may go back to sleep.”

“I’ll take your word on that, Tris.”

“You have it. Go. Walk.”

Charles brushed his hand over Tristan’s head, smoothing his hair, then bent and kissed him briefly before taking the tray from his lap. “Go back to sleep,” he commanded.

“Aye, sir,” Tristan said, saluting.

Charles laughed.

Reston
came in, looking anxious, and Charles nodded at them both before exiting through the sitting room door. “Sit down, Reston,” Tristan ordered, “and tell me what I’ve missed sleeping through the last two days.”

“Nothing of consequence, sir,” Reston said, settling into the chair beside the bed that Charles had just vacated. “Mr. Franklin sends his regards and hopes for a speedy recovery. Messieurs Berkeley and Gibson have visited to inquire about your health, and Mr. Gibson asked if you would appreciate flowers. I thought not.”

Tristan chuckled. “You think correctly. Gad. I can just imagine the sort of flowers Gibs would consider appropriate for a man’s sickroom.”

“Indeed, sir. Mrs. Northwood and I reviewed your appointments and sent excuses as necessary. I trust that was acceptable?”

“Of course. I really ought to think about getting a new valet and promoting you to butler; you perform both tasks excellently, and I should really be paying you a butler’s wages.”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but I am quite content to continue as we are for the time being.” Reston smiled kindly at him. “We can reconsider the situation once you are back on your feet.”

“I wish I knew when that would be,” Tristan said grumpily.

“Major Mountjoy seems to think another day or two resting, from what he said to myself and Mrs. Northwood this morning. But he said he thinks your fever has passed the worst and you should start feeling better soon. Particularly if you start eating better.” He frowned at Tristan.

Tristan chuckled again. “Yes, sir, Mr. Reston!” he said, and sketched a salute. “Major Mountjoy’s military ways rubbing off on you?”

“He is a very commanding presence, is he not? I quite feel like one of his troops sometimes.”

“Sometimes I do too,” Tristan admitted. “But it’s not a bad thing to be. He’s very considerate.”

“He’ll make an excellent physician,” Reston said. “I should be afraid not to follow his medical instructions.”

“No doubt he’d have you drawn and quartered, or whatever it is they do in the army,” Tristan murmured. “Well, if it assuages your worry, I’ll tell you I drank the beef broth you left for me, and am ready for the real thing now. A nice beefsteak would hit the spot.”

“We’ll start you with chicken, I think,” Reston said sternly. “Stewed, with carrots and peas. And Cook’s biscuits.”

Tristan’s stomach rumbled, and he grinned at Reston. “I think my belly agrees with you,” he said.

Baron Ware
was standing by the fireplace, gazing down at the flames, when Charles came into the library. At the sound of his footsteps, Ware looked up, his expression thunderous. “Who the devil are you, sir?” he demanded.

“Charles Mountjoy,” Charles said, advancing with his hand extended. “Lottie’s brother.”

Ware shook his hand automatically. “Where the devil is my son? I come to town only to be met with the news that he’s dying or some such rot.” His words were harsh and dismissive, but there was something in his face that spoke more of fear than disdain.

“Not quite. He
has
been quite ill—a brain fever—but I trust he is out of danger.”

Ware swallowed hard and looked up at the ceiling a moment, then back at Charles, his brows drawn together, his lips thinned. “And no one thought to notify me that my son was ill?”

“It was quite sudden,” Charles said, “and we thought you fixed in the country.”

“Has a physician seen him?”

“Dr. MacQuarrie, of the Horse Guards….”

“An army surgeon?” Ware demanded. “You called in a bloody army surgeon for my son?”

“Not a surgeon, a physician,” Charles replied coldly. “The Duke of Wellington’s personal physician while he was in Portugal, now serving the Horse Guards in London. And a specialist in the type of fever Tristan suffered. I trust that someone recommended by the Duke of Wellington is acceptable to you?”

Mollified, Ware backed down. “Well. That’s different. As to my being fixed in the country, don’t you think I would have come up if someone had had the decency to send a message as to Tristan’s condition?”

“In truth, sir,” Charles said flatly, “it was not expected that you would have any interest in—what was it?—a ‘loose, degenerate, disappointing excuse for a human being’. After all, you have your heir in Jamie. What does Tristan matter to you?”

The baron went white and staggered back against the mantle as if he’d been struck. “How
dare
you, sir, say such a thing to me?”

“Only repeating your own words, my lord,” Charles shot back.

If possible, the baron went whiter still. “Who the devil says?”

“Tristan,” Charles said.

Ware opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He ran a shaking hand over his forehead. “My son said that to you.”

“Not exactly. I read the entry in his journal for the day you said that. It was only one of a number of your comments that he recorded. He seemed to need to keep a history of your insults.” Charles smiled thinly, without any humor at all. “Some of them were quite inventive, I must say.” He waited a moment, but the baron was speechless, so he went on. “Needless to say, my conclusion that you would not be interested in Tristan’s condition should not be unexpected—after all, this fever is not contagious, so you needn’t worry about Jamie. I trust your mind has been set at ease?”

“Stop,” Ware said in an undertone.

Charles obliged, simply standing with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels. He half expected Ware to strike him. It was harsh, hitting the man with his own words like that, but the more he’d read of Tris’s journal, the angrier he’d got with Tris’s father. It was satisfying on one level to see the man so shaken, but at the same time he began to doubt Tris’s allegations that his father hated him. That white face and shaking hands did not belong to someone who didn’t care. He could have said more, but waited instead—sometimes silence drew more than questions did.

Finally, Ware said, “Tristan and I have had our difficulties. He—after his mother died, I—we always seemed to be at cross-purposes. But that does not mean that I don’t love my son, Mr. Mountjoy. I have always tried to do what is best for him, but he refuses to see that. He thinks I try to control him.” He looked up, finally meeting Charles’s eyes. “I only want what’s best for him. I could never make him understand that.”

Charles only nodded. After another long moment, Ware said humbly, “May I see him?”

“I don’t guarantee that he’s awake—or if he is, that he’s lucid,” Charles warned. “He’s mostly been sleeping these last few days. The worst of the fever is gone, but he’s exhausted, and sometimes it comes back, though not nearly as bad as before.”

“But he’s out of danger?”

“Dr. MacQuarrie says so, as long as the fever stays out of his lungs. Which it has, so far.” Charles opened the library door again and held it for the baron. “Do you know which room he is in?”

“No,” Ware said dully. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Ah,” Charles said. “Then follow me.” He led the way upstairs to the sickroom and, rapping lightly on the door, went in, the baron at his heels.

He smiled to himself in amusement. Lottie sat at Tristan’s bedside in the pose of the devoted wife, wiping Tristan’s clammy, pale brow. Both of Tristan’s wrists were bound to the bedposts. “What the devil?” Ware gasped, then at Charlotte’s scandalized look, he flushed in embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, Charlotte,” he said hastily. “But why is my son
bound
?”

“It’s only when neither I nor a footman are in the room with him,” Charles said, and went to release Tristan. He pinched Tristan’s hand as he slid the linen off. “The last time we left him alone with Charlotte he nearly got out the window.”

“Out the
window
?” Ware said in confusion. “Where did he think he was going?”

“Down,” Tristan said hoarsely, then added in a sing-song, “Down, down to the ground; splat! Jam on the cobbles.” He then giggled.

“Oh dear,” Charlotte said. “Are you sure you should release him, Charlie?”

“Of course, Lottie,” Charles said. “He’s not mad, are you, Tris?”

“I know a hawk from a handsaw,” he replied. “Hullo, Papa. Come to gaze upon the wreck of love’s young dream?”

“I came to see how you were feeling,” Ware said uncomfortably.

“Tired, mostly. They said I was ill. I suppose I am. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I’m on my deathbed and that’s why you’re here.” He turned worried eyes on Charlotte. “Am I on my deathbed, Lottie? Am I going to die?”

“No,” she said, patting his face with her damp flannel. “That would be very silly of you, wouldn’t it?”

“People do,” he argued, then he closed his eyes and seemed to go to sleep.

Charlotte turned to look up at Ware. “He is mostly just tired,” she assured him. “He talks like this when he’s worn out. I suppose he must have been like this when he was ill when he was a child?”

“Tristan was never ill as a child,” Ware said. “Just once….”

“Scarlet fever,” Tristan said, without opening his eyes. “I brought it home from the vicar’s when I was playing with his children. I wasn’t supposed to be there. It killed Mama and the baby, didn’t it, Papa? I murdered them, didn’t I, Papa?” He giggled again. “And now it’s got me.”

“You didn’t murder your mother,” Ware said, scandalized. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Tristan opened his eyes and sat up, startling them all. “Then why the
hell
have you blamed me for it all these years?” He was trembling all over.

Charles sat on the bed beside him and put his arm around his shoulders. “Tris,” he said urgently. “Tris, no one is blaming you for anything. Come, lie down again. You’re overtired, and need to rest.”

“Make him go away,” Tris said, turning his face into Charles’s shoulder. “Make him stop looking at me. It hurts when he looks at me.”

Over Tristan’s head, Charles met Ware’s appalled gaze. “Perhaps you and Charlotte should go downstairs and have some tea. I’ll sit with Tristan a while, and try and get him back to sleep. Lottie?”

“Of course,” Lottie said, and taking Ware by the sleeve, she led him from the bedroom.

Charles waited until he no longer heard their footsteps on the stairs, then went and closed the bedroom door. Then he came back to the bed and cuffed Tristan lightly on the head. “Whose idea was that little farce?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tris said sullenly. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow.

“And how did she get you all pasty and clammy like that?”

“The water in the bowl was damned cold!” Tristan complained, his voice muffled. “And that was her idea. Mine was to be tied up.”

“You wanted to shock him, didn’t you?”

Tris turned his head and regarded Charles dully. “And why not? I’ve never missed the opportunity to before, and I shan’t give up the habit now.”

“If you really wanted to shock him, you could tell him about us,” Charles said quietly.

“It’s still a hanging offense in Britain,” Tristan growled, “and even the hint of a rumor of it would scotch your career—either the military or the medical one.”

“Still,” Charles said, “that was unkind, Tris. I’ve never known you to be deliberately unkind, let alone mean-spirited.”

“How can it be unkind when he doesn’t give a damn?” Tristan asked bitterly. He rolled back over onto the pillow again.

Charles stroked his damp hair gently. “I think he does,” he said. “We spoke for a few minutes, and I think he was truly frightened for you, even before your little charade.”

“It wasn’t wholly a charade,” Tristan said into the linens. “It does hurt when he looks at me. It’s always hurt.”

“And so you lash out at him, and he at you, and the whole thing starts over again.”

“And he
does
blame me for Mama’s death. He’s always blamed me. He wasn’t very kind even before she died, but afterwards….” Tristan shook his head and jerked away when Charles would have put his hand on his shoulder. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Go away. I’m tired.”

“And leave you alone to splat on the cobbles? I don’t think so.”

“Tie me up again, then, if you think I’ll be that stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re… sad.”