Chapter 19

19

It was close to five in the evening by the time Andrew arrived at Eton. Lily had gone back to Wedgeford with Letta; it had hurt his heart to watch her go, but he was going to have to learn to be heartsick, if the future proved anything like he hoped. Now he was alone.

Alone on the streets of a town in Berkshire was very different than alone on the streets of Limehouse. A shopkeeper frowned at him; a woman, seeing him from her window, immediately closed the shutters. He asked directions, and the bartender scowled, only answering when Andrew claimed to be a servant with a letter for one of the boys.

As it was, Andrew only found his brother because Alan had made a habit of describing moping under lilac bushes in a former housemaster's garden.

He happened upon him sitting in a little hollow, grass all around him and the branches of a lilac above. His brother hugged his knees to himself and looked utterly despondent.

"Alan," Andrew whispered.

Alan screamed, whirling around, then let out a noise halfway between a sigh of relief and a screech of delight. "Andrew."

At least Andrew wasn't tall. He clambered under the branches, sitting next to his brother. "I owe you an apology."

"Do you?" Alan's eyes narrowed. "For what?"

"To start with, I lied to you for years about not being your brother."

Alan just smiled nonchalantly. "Oh, that's no bother. It's just a lie. I lied about my identity in Wedgeford. Our father lied about being married and committed bigamy. Lying's a family trait. It just means you belong."

What a grim familial welcome. Andrew looked at the sky through the screening branches of the bush. "That forgiveness was…a little too easily granted. But never mind. Listen to me. We can steal back the logbook."

"You know," Alan said dully, "I don't think you need to worry about them thinking you exist."

"No?"

"I shouldn't tell you." Alan furrowed his brow. "But—you seem to think that they might someday discover you, even though you haven't announced yourself."

"Are they not worried about it?"

"No. I've been thinking about what you said, and I think you have my uncle all backwards. He cannot conceive of the possibility that you might exist and not be demanding something."

"Strange. But I didn't come here to speak about my safety. I came to speak about yours. I have bad news." There was no sugar-coating this. Andrew had a right to know. "Lily overheard your uncle and solicitor speaking. She thinks the two of them may have you committed to an institution to retain the guardianship."

"Oh, that. He's threatened that several times."

Andrew gaped at him. "And you didn't think to mention it to me?"

"Wouldn't it be obvious that he was going to do that?" Alan seemed resigned. "I know what they think of me. I know it's selfish of me to want you to be the earl, but in my defense, the consequences for me would be very bad. I did say I didn't want it."

Things were falling into place, and Andrew didn't like the way they were falling. "I can't leave you to them. We need to do a…thingum."

Alan tilted his head. "A thingum."

The problem with not being trained to be an earl was that he had no training in things. "If it were a gardening utensil, I would already know."

Alan's eyes lit. "We need a rifle and a sharpshooter!" He threw his hands in the air in victory. "Yes! That will solve everything!"

Andrew was never going to understand the nobility. Weren't they supposed to be morally upstanding? At least slightly so? "Tempting though that may be, that would create a great many additional problems. We need a legal thingum."

Alan's lips pursed. " Which legal thingum?"

"The kind that gets your guardianship switched to me. I don't know what it's called. I can't leave you in your uncle's care. If you are not subject to his whims, we can make it work. You can be the earl."

Alan looked as if he had been given another taste of dirt.

"Don't make that face," Andrew said. "This is a compromise. You be the earl. You have all the money and all the property. And I'll protect you until you're old enough to not need me any longer."

Alan steepled his fingers, thinking. "No. The rifle will work better. To have a court declare my guardianship, granted by my father, to be null and void? That would take longer than you can possibly imagine, and it's unlikely to work. By that time, I would be in my majority. But it's nice to know that you care."

"Ah." Andrew frowned.

"Too bad." Alan smiled sadly and looked up.

"Wait one moment." Andrew felt a pit open in his stomach. "Alan, your father is still alive." Well, technically maybe not. "Isn't he?"

"He…is." Alan turned to him.

"And is he mentally well?"

"I mean." Alan rolled his eyes a little. "As much as ever. It's his heart that's the problem."

"Well, then. Is there a different legal thingum we could use?"

"A legal thingumbob, as it were." Alan tapped his lips. "Where I go to him and we say, ‘Papa, change my guardianship to this man you've never met, I promise it's a good idea?'"

Andrew had never wanted to meet his father. He harbored resentment, and rightfully so. He'd hoped the man would die without seeing his face or knowing of his existence.

But that was spite. This was his little brother: a child that nobody wanted except for what they imagined he would do for them. Andrew would do better. He had promised to protect him.

"Where we go to him," Andrew said softly, "and tell him that his elder son will take care of his younger, no matter the cost. I will be the elder brother you dreamed of."

Alan's eyes grew big.

"Not that way," Andrew said. "Never by taking the earldom. I will take care of you because I am the only one in the family that cares to do so. I will deliver you safely and happily into the earldom. I will tell him who I am, and I will convince him to give me the guardianship. He has failed too many members of his family already." Andrew felt his fists clenching. "He will not fail us, not at this point. I will not let him."

Slowly, they looked at each other.

Alan looked away first. "Very well. There's no time to waste, then."

It was dark by the time Andrew and his younger brother arrived at the country manor. It had been a six-mile jaunt from the station—practically nothing, but it was obvious Alan wasn't used to that kind of walking. He'd uttered not one word of complaint, but by the grimace on his face and the slight wince when he landed on his left foot, the exertion had been too much.

Still, Alan ushered them around the back of the building before taking out a key and ducking through a glassed-in door. The carpets seemed expensive; the gleaming wood floors unscuffed, and yet Alan gave Andrew a puzzled look when he tried to take off his shoes. It felt faintly wrong to be treading on these valuable floors with shoes dusty from travel, but there was nothing else to be done but follow after. Alan conducted Andrew through a study lined with gilded books and well-polished wood, then down a hall. They crept upstairs; Alan paused at the landing, gestured to Andrew to stay still, and then jaunted off by himself, calling to a woman he named "Nana."

It was hard to understand what Andrew was looking at. Not that he didn't know; his brain just didn't comprehend that he could be in a private residence. The paintings on the walls—landscapes and portraits and still lifes—looked like the kind of masterworks that the public ought to be able to view, made safe behind velvet ropes and glass cases. The ceiling was carved and gilded in blues and golds. There were screens from Japan and vases from China. A jade carving in a little alcove stood above a placard, which announced that it had been given to the fifth earl by a friend after the assault on the Chinese emperor's summer palace.

Andrew had known that his father was wealthy. He had, perhaps, not thought about what that meant.

Andrew considered himself "comfortable." To him, "comfortable" meant not having to worry if one's boots needed to be resoled, or having the money to summon the doctor when someone in your family was ill.

Wealthy, Andrew had imagined, was a step beyond that. Wealthy meant not performing calculations about the monthly expenses if a friend needed a shilling. If you were rich, you didn't have to think before being generous.

Andrew hadn't realized that wealth actually meant living in a private museum, surrounded by history that had been taken as spoils from the countries you plundered. Wealthy meant owning items the public should have held in common. It meant treading on carpet in shoes, uncaring of the damage you did underfoot.

Was this what Andrew would have to own, if he had been brought up an earl's heir? Impossible. Awful. Terrible. Good thing his brother was the heir.

"The way is clear," Alan called.

Andrew followed his younger brother down the hall.

He was greeted by an ornate desk and an even more ornate bed, piled with lush fabrics in gold and red. Next to the bed, a table contained a crystal snifter of some dark red liquid, and a tumbler, drained but for the dregs, and a little brass bell.

And in the bed…

For all the wealth surrounding him, Andrew could not see the man as anything except what he was: a tired old man, pale, shaky, and gaunt. His eyes, a light brown, fixed on Andrew. He struggled a moment, trying to sit up, and couldn't quite make it.

He coughed heavily, then took in a breath. "You," he said. "Come closer."

Andrew cast a glance at Alan. Alan tilted his head, gesturing, and so Andrew took a step into the room.

"Your Lordship." He bowed.

The man frowned. "You bow like a Japanese. It's been decades, but I don't forget what that looks like. Come closer. What's your name?"

"Andrew." Andrew made sure his voice carried. "My mother named me Ryuichi. Ryuichi Uchida."

"Huh." The man looked upward. "That's what Katharine wanted to name the baby, if she had a son. Not that we would have allowed such a name."

"Who is Katharine?"

The earl waved a hand. "Inconsequential."

This was the man who had married his mother, who had told her that she should not worry about attempted murder.

The Earl of Arsell looked between Andrew and Alan, confusion on his face, before looking at Alan. "My boy…" His voice didn't tick up at the end; it was not quite a question.

"Which of us do you mean?" Alan asked.

The earl drew in a rattling breath. "I'm not so far gone that I don't recognize my own son."

"You are obviously incorrect," Alan said snippily. "Look again, Papa."

Once again, that gaze turned to Andrew. He stood there, accepting the earl's perusal, while the earl pondered him in return. "Ah. You're Katharine's son," he finally said.

"What?" Andrew made a face. "No, I'm not. My mother is named Katsumi."

"Too much of a mouthful." The earl sniffed self-righteously. "‘Kat' works for both. I always just called her Katharine."

His mother had been very sharp with anyone who tried to replace her personal name with an English one. Andrew suspected he understood where she came by that.

Alan came to stand by him. "Father, how can you just say it like that— Katharine's son— when you must know the truth?"

The man considered this. "Katharine's son. And my own, then." A look of confusion passed over his face. "Are you here to take the earldom from my boy before I pass?"

Alan hit his forehead with a fist. "Ugh! Why are you putting it like that? I don't want it! I don't want anything to do with it!"

"Just as well. There's little I can do to stop him, if he wants it." The earl rolled onto his back.

Andrew stared at him. That's what he had to say in the moment? There was nothing he could do? He was an earl. He could ring the bell next to his bed and summon servants to accuse Andrew of housebreaking. He could offer to pay Andrew a vast sum of money. His options were limited only by his physical infirmity. Had the man no imagination?

"I'm here to protect Alan," Andrew said.

"From the earldom?" There was a hint of sarcasm in that.

"From his uncle," Andrew persisted.

His father frowned.

"His uncle wants him married and procreated; after that, he wants him committed to an asylum. The man has managed the estate too long to give up his control now."

"Ah." The earl looked resigned rather than upset. "That. Yes. He is rather set in his ways. You know how it is; we're old friends."

Andrew cast a startled glance at Alan; Alan simply smothered a cough that sounded suspiciously like you see? in return.

"You know." Andrew scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You know that he's going to commit your son to an asylum. Do you also know that he's despoiling the estate?"

"Of course I know!" The man seemed annoyed to be questioned. "He is my own son. And it is my estate."

"I'm having difficulty understanding. You knew and you did nothing. You didn't remove him from the guardianship, or take back his control of the estate?"

"Well, what was there to do about it?" the earl groused. "It would have been impolite. He's my sister's husband. If we don't have manners among family, what do we have?"

This was, indeed, Andrew's father: the exact man who had told his mother that there was nothing to be done about attempted murder except to maintain a stiff upper lip. At least Andrew now understood that his indifference applied equally to both his sons.

Andrew looked to the ceiling, only to be greeted with the sight of a pink, chubby cherub, armed and deadly with a beribboned bow. "I personally would prefer a mild lapse in manners to my son being confined to an asylum."

"So impulsive. So rude." The earl released a long breath. "I tried to explain this all to Katharine. She never did understand. Do you know, I believe she was the love of my life. I have always missed her."

What kind of pale emotion did this man call love, that he claimed as the love of his life a woman who he'd lectured about not having sufficient grace while being pushed down the stairs? The earl had missed her so much that he'd married another woman a year after Andrew's mother had left him.

"I should think you could have protected the love of your life."

"What was I to do? Tell my fiancée's brother, who was married to my sister, to be calm? I understood perfectly well why he was angry. Entirely justifiable. If I had been in his shoes, I would have done something myself."

"If we don't have manners," Andrew said mockingly, "what do we have?"

Without any sense of sarcasm, his father replied, "Precisely so."

"Well. At least they'll say we were civil while they murdered us." Andrew looked over to the walls. Another little fresco showed an outdoor picnic. So much wealth. So much power. And the man couldn't do a damned thing with it. "I have an excellent idea. Here's a polite thing for you to do: you should sign Alan's guardianship over to me."

"Here now." His father frowned. "That seems hasty. We should consider it."

You are literally dying, Andrew did not shout, because he didn't want to hear another lecture on how things would be if he did not have manners.

"I am his older brother," Andrew said. "It would be rude to leave him in anyone else's care. It would be like you saying that I was not to be trusted."

"But I have already agreed to leave the guardianship to his uncle."

"Yes, but that was before you knew I existed." Andrew looked at him. "Now that you know about me, don't you think it would be unmannerly to leave the guardianship with anyone else?"

"But—"

"Father," Alan put in, "you always said that disagreement was uncouth. Are you going to disagree with both of your sons?"

The man seemed much struck by this. He scratched the spotty stubble on his chin, considering. "But it seems so rude to dear old Hortense. Alan, after everything your uncle has done…is this how you would repay him?"

"Do you include ‘robbing the estate' in that everything?" Andrew asked in bewilderment.

"A little self-benefit makes a man all the more eager to do his duty. Who amongst us would not do the same?"

Andrew's desire to be absolutely nothing like his father intensified. It wasn't just that he was an earl. It was that surrounded by the finest things in the world, he was impoverished by a spirit that refused to fight for the ones he loved. Andrew would never—never?—

The last years of Andrew's life flooded in.

He hadn't told Lily he loved her before she left; he hadn't spoken a word of his affections when she returned. He hadn't told her of his parentage, hadn't asked her to help him. He'd stolen a logbook from her rather than confront the difficulty of the truth.

He had not fought for her. He had pushed her away again and again and it was only because Lily was far too good for him that she hadn't decamped.

The insight struck him with all the subtlety of an arrow unleashed by the pink-cheeked cherub on the ceiling. What was Andrew doing in this exact moment? His reasons were different from his father's, but he was doing precisely what his father had done—refusing to claim the woman he loved because he couldn't figure out how to make it work.

On his deathbed, would he, too, refer to Lily as the long-lost love of his life?

He had pushed his younger brother away, even when he was in distress—had refused to acknowledge him, up until the moment when his own lies had caught up with him and it became impossible to keep up the fa?ade.

Despite all his efforts, Andrew had, in fact, turned out to be his father's son. The thought filled him with a tide of disgust, but he could feel it rooting in his heart. He was like his father. He was.

But he wouldn't be. He couldn't . He had to start here: by saving his brother.

"Since you can't be impolite," Andrew said, "please sit here and tell your son that he will be committed to a mental institution because you won't lift your finger to stop his uncle from despoiling the estate."

His father glanced at Alan, then looked away.

"I mean it." Andrew bent beside the bed. "Go on. Tell him. Because that's what you're doing. Can you not accept your own actions? Do you lack the manners to be able to look your son in the face and announce your decision?"

"I—it's—it's more that?—"

"Ah." Andrew smiled grimly. "You don't want to tell—what was his name again? Dear Hortense? You cannot tell dear Hortense to his face. There might be unpleasantness."

"Precisely."

"Can I suggest changing the guardianship without telling him?" Andrew's smile felt like a blade. "If he sees you before the end and asks about it, just say ‘Ah, yes, Alan,' and then pretend to fall asleep."

"Is that mannerly?"

"You're not well," Andrew pointed out. "You are allowed to rest."

The earl pondered this. "If I don't have to be rude…"

Andrew held his breath. He could see Alan crossing his fingers.

Finally, the earl nodded. "Very well. Alan, ring the bell. Fetch my amanuensis and the nurse and…" He squinted, thinking. "Another witness, one that is unimpeachable. Send the groom for the vicar."

It took an hour for everyone to assemble—for the vicar to arrive by carriage, and the amanuensis to obtain a copy of the prior will. They cast curious glances at Andrew but did not ask further questions.

When all were present, the Earl of Arsell managed to sit up in bed and narrate for the amanuensis. "I, Jacobus Phineas Beauregard Tisbitt, being of sound mind, do hereby amend my will as follows. I leave the guardianship of my son Alan Jacobus Woodrow Tisbitt, and control of his trust alongside the estate, to…Andrew…" He looked over at Andrew and paled.

"Andrew Uchida," Andrew supplied.

"To Andrew Ryuichi Uchida, until such time as Alan obtains his majority."

"My lordship," murmured the vicar, as the amanuensis was making copies. "Is this man trustworthy?"

The earl looked down. "Katharine trusts him," he responded. And apparently, he had told the man about his first wife, because the vicar took this in with a sigh.

"Your signature, sir."

The earl signed the document; the witnesses signed beneath. It was official. Andrew was now the guardian of a future earl.

He could feel the burden on his shoulders. This house. That jade carving. That stupid cherub overhead, aiming the arrow at his heart. All of these were going to be Alan's, and Andrew would have to preserve them until Alan came of age. Andrew would probably have to spend months here.

Andrew was awarded with a copy of the changed will. The witnesses gradually crept out.

"Thank you," Andrew said.

"I am not long for this world." The earl coughed. "I am glad I was able to meet you before the end."

"By the way," Alan piped up, "speaking of your death—we will need some money to manage expenses, in order for the change in guardianship to take effect."

"Ah. Of course." The man nodded. "Will a hundred pounds do?"

Andrew choked.

"Let's make it five, to be safe," Alan said, and with no more thought than Andrew might pay to buying a bun at a baker, a bank draft was signed.

By now, it was nine at night; they were going to have to scramble to catch the last train to London, and they still had work to do.

"I always thought," the earl said, "that the next generation should do better, be better. Make more money; add to the estate."

Andrew tapped his foot against the ground.

"I trust you'll do that?" He looked between them.

"In the short space of time I've known you," Andrew replied, "you've already taught me a great deal about…" What not to do, ever, under any circumstances. "About life," Andrew concluded. "I promise to apply what I've learned from you. Thank you. Rest well."

They turned to leave. The earl grasped Alan's wrist as he did so.

"I believe in you, boy." His voice was a whisper.

"That's cold." Alan stared at his father. "Here I am, trying to do better than the prior generation: say something to your other son, too."

Andrew and the earl looked at each other. For all that the man had sired him, he was a stranger. Knowing him for even this short space of time had only made him more alien.

"You as well," the earl said quietly. "Of course."

It was closer to morning than night when Lily, laden with the salacious account books and captain's logs she'd obtained from Wedgeford, met Alan and Andrew at the train station.

They convened in the alley behind the solicitor's office. Lily had obtained a set of glinting iron lock picks from a man in Chinatown who hadn't asked questions and didn't need answers.

A fog filled the alleyway, scattering the light from the streetlamps into the shadows. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the lock, trying to remember how it was done. It had been years; she had never been good at it, just capable of doing the job when given enough time.

"Given enough time" was no problem when it meant opening a chest that a woman had taken from her husband's house containing all her valuables. Standing in an alley in London was a different matter.

Every sound seemed magnified. The drop of water from a roof; the sound of horses' hooves, echoing through the fog. Some bird, awake at this untimely hour, called overhead. Someone shouted indistinctly a few streets over; her mind conjured up police officers turning the corner and shouting, "Stop, thief!"

Her heart beat like a drum in her own ears, and at every interruption she started, losing all progress.

"Lily…" Andrew spoke in a low voice.

"I'm trying!"

"I know." He took a step closer to her. "You can do this. I know you can. Don't worry about anything but the door. Let me take care of everything else." He set a hand on her shoulder. "As long as I'm touching you, you know that all is well."

She shut her eyes and let that promise flow through her: Andrew would take care of it. She just needed to concentrate on the lock. Once more, she fitted the narrow lock pick into the keyhole. This time, she was able to lift one pin. Instead of losing all progress in fright at the next sound, she let the warmth of his hand against her ground her.

Slowly, she managed to lift one pin, then the next. She could feel sweat beading on her forehead. The fog went from dark brown to slightly lighter gray. The sun was coming up; soon it would be too late.

She nudged the last pin into place with a tiny, satisfying click, and the door swung open. They swarmed into motion.

This part was easy: Alan ran to the bookshelf, looking for the account books. Lily and Andrew darted to the desk, carefully opening each drawer.

"Here," Lily said. "This is the drawer with a false bottom." She removed paper and an inkwell, felt around, and found the latch that released the false bottom. There, in the gray light of dawn, lay the old, familiar logbook. Lily pulled it out, checked the page—yes, this was the right volume—and took the false log out of her satchel.

"Wait," Andrew whispered behind her. "That looks exactly like the captain's log. It didn't used to look like that."

"Yes," Lily whispered. "I weathered the cover and added printing. I didn't want them to notice, not unless they opened it."

"It's still, um, pornography?"

"If you insist on calling it that." Lily sniffed, set it in place, and carefully laid the decoy in its place. "I still prefer ‘translated literature that focuses on a woman's pleasure.'"

The drawer bottom went back on; together, they placed the items from the drawer back in place.

"No," Lily hissed. "Not neatly. Andrew, it was laid out like this." She demonstrated. "Really. What would you do without me?"

Andrew winked at her, and she felt her stomach flutter.

It took one last moment to look around the office—one moment to hope they hadn't left any clues—before they slipped out the door. Lily latched it behind them, and they walked—slowly, carefully, as if they'd done nothing wrong—down the back alley.

By the time they made their way to the train station, darkness had receded to a gray duskiness. Workers were beginning to set out stalls laden with bread, onions, wizened potatoes, and apples.

Alan sidled up to Lily. "I see why my brother likes you."

"Does he?" Lily glanced at Andrew.

"Of course he does!" Alan grinned at her. "You're top of the basket!"

"I'm…what?"

"Flash," Alan offered.

She shook her head.

"Ripsnorting. Jammy. Spiffing. Excellent. Up to dick."

"I'm what now?"

"They're compliments." Alan smiled tremulously at her. "And you've helped to change my life. If ever you need a man to lend you a hand, I'll be at your service."

"Will you?"

"I will. And since I'm apparently going to be the godforsaken earl…" His shoulders slumped. "I'll apparently be able to do quite a bit."

"Really!" Lily leaned forward. "What are your thoughts on universal suffrage?"

"Votes for women?"

"Votes for everyone." Lily was not giving up. "In all the British territories and protectorates."

He considered this for a moment. "Well, we all need an impossible cause to champion. Why not?"