Chapter 26

26

A fter the events of the week, the night before Christmas was a quiet one. Grace seemed to have more energy during the day, but she was often half-asleep at the dinner table in the evening, and went to bed long before Roland was ready to turn in.

He had taken to spending the long evenings with his brother, often in silent company in his study, as they worked on their own pursuits. Tonight, they lingered at the table and enjoyed drinks and conversation.

“I’m glad you don’t insist on port after dinner,” Thorne said, playing with the rim of his glass of whisky.

Roland snorted. “Not here, not with you. And I will admit, I am not particularly fond of it either. But you should learn to cultivate a palate for something better suited than that swill, at least. You are a proper gentleman now, after all! Port is for camaraderie and manly conversation.”

One side of Thorne’s face curled in a sardonic smile. “It might be swill to those high in the instep, but I believe even they would hesitate to describe whisky as ‘unmanly.’ Certainly not in front of any Scotsman, at least.”

Roland stretched out one leg, grinning at the image of what would likely result. No doubt, it would end the way Bertram Robson had, stretched out upon the lawn. Although as satisfying as that moment had been, it felt hollow now. Now, he only felt bad for what the man had endured.

How alone he was in the world. How much more so he would be, once sent to his virtual exile across the Atlantic.

“You seem easier now than you did when you arrived. I trust things are better now between you and Grace?”

“Can you actually believe she was afraid to tell me we would have to delay our plans to leave Alnwick? Am I really so fearsome?”

“You aren’t,” Thorne smirked. “But given the tender relationship between you and the Breaker, I cannot blame her for fearing the knowledge you would be extended guests might make your head pop right off.”

Roland rolled his eyes expressively, tossing back his brandy, and Thorne considered his brother a moment. “You talk about you and Grace, but you haven’t really said much else on the subject of her having your child. Just how do you feel about the idea of being a father?”

A small twist of nerves fluttered in his stomach, and he scoffed a laugh. “Curiously elated… and a little bit terrified, both at the same time. You know, it is not as if I never experienced fear in my lifetime. But this year, it feels as if we have made a rather different acquaintance. How can I be so suddenly afraid of a hundred different things I never even conceived of eight months ago? How can any person be worthy of the trust of rearing another life?”

Thorne’s gamine smile made Roland hear his own words, and Roland scowled at his brother before he could hoist him with his own petard.

“Yes, clearly many fools have somehow muddled through it, and you think I am being ridiculous. But now, you—you are a natural as a father. I see how the Sprouts are with you, and I wish…” he frowned, losing the sense of what he was trying to say. “I do not know what I wish. All I know is that I envy you a little bit. When I think about being a father to my child the way you are with them, I feel… inadequate.”

Thorne spun his glass some more. “You are worrying for naught. The Sprouts restrain themselves because they feel safe and happy in your household. Their greatest fear is that they will lose you and Grace if they test your patience too far. In time, they’ll know better. And you will make a good father. When you trust someone with your heart, you do so unreservedly, and I believe the moment you find that bairn in your arms for the first time, you will fall in love. And when you do, you will see. Everything will be all right.”

There was something melancholy about his brother, and Roland wondered if perhaps Thorne was lonely. He had hoped the man would start to find his way to the edges of the social scene. To find friends there. Perhaps even a lover. It seemed that might take a little time.

“I would wish that for you, you know. Love, I mean,” Roland blurted out before he could think better of it. This was a mistake. He was too intoxicated for such a serious conversation. Or perhaps not deep in his cups enough. He tried to salvage the conversation with humour. “After all, you managed to win mine , and you said that was no easy task. A lady’s love—that should be easy as a winking for you.”

Thorne’s raised eyebrow gave Roland enough time to gird for a return salvo, and he pretended to wince, ducking. But the words died upon Thorne’s lips, and as Roland looked up, he saw his brother was looking over his shoulder, rising to his feet.

The tapping of a cane became so loud behind him, Roland wondered how he had missed it, and he belatedly stood as well. “Grandfather,” he said in surprise, before correcting himself. “Your Grace. We did not expect your company.”

“I should retire—” Thorne began, but the Breaker’s expression kept him rooted in place.

“You do not have to leave, Sir Nathaniel,” the duke said, a trifle archly. “In fact, I would be pleased if you would stay. Sit, both of you.”

They sat, and with the aid of the footman, the duke took the head of the table with only the barest wobble. “Would you like some port, sir?” the footman asked him quietly.

“That vile stuff? Hmph . No, I believe I shall try some of what my guest is drinking.”

Thorne’s eyebrows lifted. “Er, it’s highland whisky, Your Grace?—”

“And?” the Breaker rumbled irritably, but then he gave Thorne a sly grin that was so unexpected, so shocking, even Roland sat straight in his chair. “I have lived here in the north all of my seventy-five years. Surely you do not think it would be my first time attempting it, pup .”

Blinking rapidly, Thorne inclined his head. “Well then… I hope you like Glenlivet’s efforts.”

The Breaker seemed thoroughly entertained by Thorne’s confusion, and he lifted his glass to his lips slowly, being careful to avoid spilling it. “Good on you for knowing where to find the better stuff.”

Thorne’s eyes slid to Roland’s, and helplessly, Roland shrugged one shoulder. He did not know what the duke was about any more than Thorne did. There was a silence filled only by the duke’s approving rumble and the footman stepped forward to fill his glass again.

“Your rather rude remarks the other night gave me much to ponder, Roland,” the Breaker finally said, cupping both hands around his drink. “To my greatest irritation, I fear you might be right. Withers has told me what you discovered about… Hannah, and her son. Perhaps what I did, in the end, was the inevitable outcome. But what I must admit, seeing your solution with Bertram Robson, is that I never offered Hannah another real choice she could have accepted instead.”

The duke exhaled, a long, heavy sigh. “I took too long. I failed to even attempt to make amends with my sister, and you are right. It was my pride that prevented it. I would ask you for a boon, Roland.”

“Of course, grandfather,” he replied unhesitatingly, wondering what on earth the old duke was about to ask.

“When you send Bertram away… send him with all of Hannah’s remaining effects you can find. Including her jewellery, if it can be reclaimed. I… do not want him to be forced to leave England without anything of his mother’s.”

Bertram Robson was living quietly, just until Roland could finish plans for investments, and passage could be arranged to America. Roland had some time to make that happen.

“That is generous of you. I also was thinking of the same thing. At least I thought we should give him the letters from his parents that Grace found, and the chest, if he can find room in his luggage for it.”

The duke grunted, and then grew a little distant, his eyes turning in Thorne’s direction, but seeing through him as if he was having another spell. “Where did all the time go?”

“ Sorrow never comes too late, and happiness too swiftly flies ,” Thorne said softly, quoting Thomas Grey.

“Well spoken, Sir Nathaniel,” the Breaker agreed after a moment, drinking off his whisky as he focused sharply on Roland’s brother, as if he had not truly ever looked at the man before. “I say, you are rather well cultured for a bastard,” he continued, but there was an amused lilt to his words.

“The opportunity to become so was entirely your grandson’s doing, Your Grace. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but in the time I have been fortunate enough to know him, I have found him to be a rather remarkable man.”

The duke turned back to Roland at that, and humiliatingly, Roland felt his cheeks colour slightly.

“Yes,” the duke said simply in his gravelly voice. “I agree. But I hope you do not plan to give your half-brother all the credit for becoming a person of excellent character.” The duke struggled to his feet before either one of them could respond to that shocking comment. “Besides, he will get a swollen head.”

Fortunately, his shuffling gait gave them the moment they needed to collect their wits.

“Grandfather—Your Grace,” Roland hastily amended, and the man turned slightly. “I know you are uncomfortable interacting with many others, but I want you to know we would welcome your presence in whatever capacity you feel you wish to give it.”

There was more than a small chance it would be the duke’s last Christmas, Roland thought. Despite whatever awkwardness he might present, it seemed a cruelty not to make it clear he would be welcome to participate. And yet, as he said the words, he felt a strange shifting in the room. A sense of power changing hands.

The duke inclined his head, and Roland knew he felt it as well. “We will see what the morning brings.”