R Is for Rebel (33 page)

“I think that's a stupid idea—” James barked.

Marisa patted the fine nap of James's moleskin trousers and looked up into his eyes with a tender affection that, Eliot remarked silently to himself, she'd never given to him. James scowled at Eliot and, then by association, at Abigail.

“What are you looking at me for?”

“You might have mentioned you were buying bags of clothes for
Eliot
Cranbrook
when you came to the store today.”

“I didn't lie to anyone about my name,” Abigail retorted.

“Abigail!” It was Devon this time.

Abigail folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. I'll shut up.”

Sarah stood up and offered to show Eliot and Marisa to a small den across the hall. Eliot gave Abigail a comforting squeeze on the shoulder and got up to leave the room. Marisa followed him slowly out and across the hall into the other room.

Abigail stared at James, her foot kicking in mild irritation, then crooked a tiny smile at the absurdity of it all. “Mary?”

“I thought you said you were going to shut up, Abby?” But James smiled a little bit too, because as awkward and raw as all of this felt right at this moment, he now realized that Marisa was well and truly free. Her only lingering hesitation had been tied up into something approximating guilt at abandoning the perfectly marriageable Eliot, but even
that
she had come to terms with. If they could all be honest, they might still have a perfectly good weekend ahead of them.

Much more than just a weekend
, James thought.

Sarah came back into the living room and looked from Abigail to James, then across to Willa and David, then down toward Devon, who was sitting on the couch to her left.

Devon looked up at her with a wry look. “I am so relieved you and I never had any misunderstandings like this, aren't you, darling?”

Abigail started laughing, then James tried to stay angry and failed. Willa almost snorted her vodka out of her glass and grabbed at her husband's shirtsleeve to prevent herself from falling off the couch in a fit of hysterical laughter.

By the time Eliot and Marisa came back into the living room, the other six were laughing and talking as if nothing unusual had transpired. Eliot cleared his throat to let them know they were back in the room.

They all came to a stunned silence, as if on cue, and then Devon failed to repress a laugh and the rest of them disintegrated into uncontrollable laughter again. Eliot looked at Marisa and said, “Perhaps it is unwise to mix with this crew, but I fear it is too late to turn back now.”

Abigail hopped up from her seat and crossed the long Aubusson carpet to take one of Eliot's hands between both of hers. After a few seconds, she let go with her right hand and reached across to Marisa. “I'm Abigail Heyworth. Nice to meet you, Marisa.”

Marisa looked down at Abigail's small, firm hand for a second, then smiled and shook it. “Marisa Plataneau. The pleasure is all mine.”

Devon stood up and turned to face them as he took Sarah's hand in his. “Now that all of the proper introductions have been made, shall we go in to dinner?”

David stood up and stretched his neck and shoulders as if he had just spent two hours sitting through a very boring Swedish film. “Finally.” He yawned. “I'm starved.”

The eight of them went into the dining room and enjoyed a very long, intoxicating meal. Hours later, when Max burst into the room to announce the arrival of Sylvia, imagining he would be met with a group of silent, hand-wringing brooders, he had to shout in order to make himself heard.

“What the hell?”

Sarah was wearing Devon's shirt, which, apparently, Devon no longer thought he required. Marisa was draped across James's lap with one hand around his neck, the other mysteriously absent below the tablecloth, and his tongue tracing the edge of her ear. Willa and Eliot were dancing their own uncoordinated version of the tango to the too-loud flamenco music, and David and Abigail were vehemently agreeing with one another about the absolute necessity of wearing socks with certain loafers.

“I know!” Abigail yelled to be heard. “The last thing I want to see is some man's pale bony—god-forbid hairy—ankle!”

Devon spotted Max first. “Hey Max! Where've you been? Dinner was delicious.”

“I have been in the company of my wife as she labored to deliver my second child. Baby Sylvia was born healthy and hale in case anyone was wondering, but don't let me interrupt you.” He was trying to be the picture of ducal chastisement, but it just came out as peevish and they all broke down into riotous laughter again.

“To Sylvia!”

“To Sylvia!”

“More champagne!” Devon called out to no one in particular.

Sarah poured a healthy measure of the Dom Perignon into a nearby glass of scotch after emptying the previous contents into the floral centerpiece. “Hereyougomax,” she slurred as she handed him the thick-cut crystal lowball.

“Aren't you the picture of elegance, Sarah?”

She looked down at the pale blue shirt that hit her at the knees, and her bare feet beyond. “Why yes. Yes, I am,” she agreed then skipped back to kiss Devon on the cheek.

Devon looked at his older brother and raised his glass. “Let us know when the next one comes down the pike, old man!”

Max chugged the champagne in a few quick pulls, then let the glass come down onto the centuries-old dining table with a solid clap of authority. “Apparently, I have gone to the trouble and worry of bringing children into this world, only to see them forced to ally themselves with a tribe of
infants
!” He stormed out of the room, pleased with the resulting stunned silence, then walked quicker as he heard the ensuing coughs bubble up into loud, unrestrained laughter.

When he returned an hour later, with news of Lady Catherine's safe arrival, everything in the dining room was much as he had left it.

Devon looked up. “That was fast! Did she pop out another one?”

“Yes, Devon. Bronte just popped out another one.” Max turned to leave, exhausted and irritated.

Abigail ran up behind him and caught the back of his shirt. “Don't go, Max. Please. Come, celebrate with us. Bronte must be passed out by now—or you wouldn't have left her, of course.”

Max looked at Abigail, finally happy in her own skin, then up to Eliot, who was sitting at the dining room table with his hand resting on the back of the chair where she had been sitting, as if he were protecting her space even in her short absence. James sat in one of the deep window seats with Marisa sound asleep in his lap, her body curled up next to him and her head resting on one thigh.

Max felt his shoulders settle and put one arm around Abigail's small frame. “All right, Abs. I think I will. It's all a bit much to process. Pour me something old and brown, please.”

“Will do.” She gave him a mock salute and went to the sideboard to fix him a celebratory scotch.

***

Abigail went to make drinks and tried to take in everything that had happened in the past few weeks. She was actually standing in what she still thought of as her parents' dining room, pouring her brother a congratulatory scotch to celebrate the births of his second and third children. The man she loved was splayed out across one of the dining room chairs, waiting for her, watching her; her other brother was besotted with his wife as the two of them mooned over one another at the far end of the table, Sarah in a mortifying state of half-dressed disarray.

And her cousin, James.

He was in a stupor of affection over his newfound Marisa. Whether the two of them would expire in a brief flame of passion or build upon this strange beginning, Abigail was not certain.

She dropped the ice cubes into a clean glass and chose a particularly delicious scotch in honor of babies Sylvia and Catherine. She smiled at the idea of Wolf playing big brother upon awaking tomorrow—this—morning. Abigail watched as the clear, caramel liquid drained into the waiting crystal and tried to honor her brother in this brief moment of service. She put the top back on the bottle of scotch then set the bottle back into place at the back of the aged mahogany sideboard that had served as the bar at Dunlear Castle for decades.

Abigail turned back toward Max, feeling the weight of her own glass and his in each of her hands, reminded of that warm night in Bequia a year ago. She walked with renewed purpose to stand next to him, then handed over the solid glass. “Here you are, Max. To new beginnings, eh?”

He looked at her with an exhausted but penetrating expression. “Well put, my lovely little sister. To new beginnings. May yours lead to many years of connubial bliss. May mine lead to… patience.”

She smiled at his sweet toast and took a sip of her drink as he did the same.

“Let's go sit in the living room, shall we?” Max offered.

James looked up from his happy occupation of tracing the edge of Marisa's jawline with his thumb. “I think we'll head up to our rooms. But thanks for everything… and thanks again, Max. I'm sorry for the confusion… or the upset… or whatever. I'll see you in the morning.” He moved Marisa gently off his thigh then swung her up into his arms. “I think it's best not to wake her, don't you?”

Max just smiled and raised his glass to James with the same pleased wishes, “To new beginnings.”

“Just so,” said James.

Sarah and Devon were equally spent, nearly falling off the edge of their chairs in the fast approaching posthilarity slumber.

“Take your wife to bed, Devon,” Max ordered. “And you too, Osborne. Get Willa upstairs already. You will all be miserable in the morning. I suppose that is some consolation for your lack of propriety.”

Willa and David weaved out of the room, their path leading in the general direction of the stairs, although their journey was marked by the occasional collision with the odd side table.

Eliot stood up to join Abigail and Max as the three of them walked toward the living room.

“Let's go into the den, shall we?” said Abigail. “So much more cozy.” She smiled over her shoulder to catch Eliot's eye.

As they settled themselves into the smaller room, Eliot and Abigail curled up on the sofa and Max collapsed into the deep leather armchair.

Abigail began to question Max about Bronte's ordeal. “So, how was the delivery?”

“As Bronte would say, a fucking bloody mess.” He tried to smile through the reenactment of his wife's notoriously crude manner of speech, but it wasn't enough to conceal the real worry that had plagued him for the past five hours.

Eliot squeezed Abigail's shoulder in what she suspected was some anticipatory show of husbandly camaraderie for her future childbearing.

“What are they like?” Abigail asked quietly. She had always been able to hold her liquor as well as the next longshoreman, and she felt a mellow quiet settle in upon the three of them as the antique mantel clock ticked toward two in the morning. She loved the protective feel of Eliot's arm around her shoulders—it was the future. And she loved the knowing glance of her brother's skeptical brow as he observed them—the very comforting past.

“You mean the babies?” Max asked.

Abigail nodded as she took a small sip of her drink.

“Already inclined to express their unique personalities. Sylvia was screaming her demands before the umbilical cord was cut, and Catherine waited until her big sister was fed and in bed before making her quiet, gentle entrance into the world. And once she arrived, Catherine was perfectly happy to look and listen until the world provided her with its bounty. Their time in the womb has probably defined them for life. Sylvia will devour. Catherine will abide.”

A bright log broke, and the small fire crackled in the grate across the intimate wood-paneled room.

“I'm sorry again for all the mayhem, Max.” Eliot's voice was low. “I hope our little scene wasn't to blame for the early onset of Bronte's labor.”

Max waved his glass out in front of him to dismiss what Eliot had said. “Look. They were going to come. Especially Sylvia. I can almost believe that she was waiting until as many people as possible would be inconvenienced by her arrival before she decided to make her entrance. There's nothing any of us could have done or not done to alter that. But I appreciate the sentiment. Especially after all that insanity in the dining room.”

Eliot dipped his head in a small apology, then spoke. “So, Max. While I've got you here in the postpartum lull, as it were, do you mind if I marry Abigail?”

Max held his glass a few inches from his mouth, paused in the midaction of taking a sip, then slowly lowered it back down, holding it in two hands at his lap. “Are you asking for her hand?”

“Yes. I think I am.”

Abigail looked at Eliot as if he had lost his mind, then turned to Max and begged him with her eyes. She shook her head in a tiny no.

Max looked at her then at Eliot. “I suppose as head of this bizarre assortment of people otherwise known as a family, it should fall to me to make such life-altering decisions, but I could no more weigh in on the suitability of Abigail's spouse than I could perform a frontal lobotomy on a rhino. You are utterly and completely on your own, Eliot. Why you would ever want to dive into a gene pool of this—shall we say, eclectic?—scope… is beyond me, so I'm hard-pressed to accept or deny your suit. The mere fact that you remain interested after all you've seen of our putative mental health means that you're either very brave or very deranged. In either case, welcome.” Max lifted his glass again, then brought it to his lips for the longed-for sip. After the warmth of the liquor reached his stomach, Max opened his eyes again. “On the other hand, I suppose it's worth finding out if you love her. Do you love Abigail, Eliot?”

Abigail's heart skipped the proverbial beat when Eliot paused to consider his reply.