Chapter Nine

Briggs

Since August was young, we’ve had a mutual understanding about cards. He is a card genius, and whenever we play, he always manages to win. So in return for allowing him to tag along with my friends, he splits his earnings with me. Half of his earnings is always more than I lose during a game, so it’s a foolproof system we’ve maintained.

This evening, he sits across from me, his face entirely unreadable, and I know his mind is ticking silently, calculating every move. It’s crowded at The Hearth and Hound. The dimly lit tavern is packed with sweaty men drinking ale and discussing crops and cattle, carousing with great guffaws of laughter, and it’s taking all I have to concentrate on the card game before me. I already decided that whatever August wins can go to the apiary he so desperately wants. Two birds with one stone.

Across the table, Westley makes his move and slaps a card down before us. Lord Drummond nods, impressed. He’s one of Westley’s friends, and while I don’t mind his company, we’ve never really grown to understand one another. He attended the dinner at Wrexford the other evening and made his feelings about Charlotte Barlow rather clear. Now I feel this strange, older brother urge to make him prove himself to me.

August scoffs, pulling me back to the game at hand.

“What?” asks Westley, shoulders slouched.

“Well, if you don’t know, I’m certainly not telling you.” August puts down two cards and then cackles. “I win.” He collects his money and stuffs it into his breast pocket.

Westley sighs and rocks back in his chair. “He always wins. Why do we even play with him?”

I rearrange my cards and then rub at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Because Mother says I have to include my little brother.”

Under the table, August kicks my shin, but before I can retaliate, he’s shifted out of reach.

“The truth is,” says August, “and though Briggs is not man enough to admit it, whatever skill my brother teaches me, I always excel in. Cards, archery.”

“Boxing?” Lord Drummond asks.

August shifts in his chair. “I’ve only just taken up the sport. Briggs and I have had maybe three lessons, but I’m a natural, of course.”

“Of course,” I agree. Though when my brother isn’t looking, my mouth twitches in amusement. “Natural” maybe isn’t the word. August is a tall lad, lean and lanky, but he’s never been particularly athletic. But since Father died, he’s been determined to learn how to box, almost as though he’s making it up to Father for all the times he invited August to learn with me, but August declined. Better late than never, I suppose.

“Tell them, Briggs,” says August. “You said I was a regular prodigy.”

“I’m not entirely certain those were the words I chose.”

Drummond snickers and shakes his head. “You should come to London, August, take some lessons with Sebastian Lambert. He would love the challenge of such a brilliant student.”

“Pointless,” August assures him. “I have no need of any more lessons. I know the essentials, and I’m feeling rather confident, I must confess. Once I take to a subject, I am an ideal student. I master my lessons quickly.”

“I need another drink,” I say with a sigh, pushing my chair back from the table.

“I’ll get our drinks,” says August, standing. “This round is on me, gentlemen.”

“Hear, hear,” says Drummond, raising his empty mug.

Once August disappears to refresh our drinks, Westley leans in toward Drummond and me. “But really, Briggs, he always wins. He’s a genuine card prodigy. It doesn’t exactly make playing any fun when I lose enough money to purchase a small estate in Dorset.”

“Who would want a small estate in Dorset, anyway?” I ask.

Westley arches a brow.

“I know, I know,” I admit. “Just…next time, don’t bet as much. You’re in control of your own purse strings.”

Drummond taps his fingers on the table before us. “I wouldn’t mind a small estate in Dorset,” he considers. “The coastline is truly stunning.”

“Miss Barlow won’t move to Dorset,” says Westley matter-of-factly. And he’s right.

“True,” Drummond concedes. “What of Miss Rowley?”

“You can’t have both, you know,” I say. Probably too quickly.

Drummond grins at my reaction. “I wasn’t implying that I could. But whatever happened between you and Miss Rowley the other night in the gardens must be true considering your reaction.”

I take a deep breath, running my hand down my face. “It was all a misunderstanding, and I’m working on making things right with her.”

Westley reaches out a hand and claps my shoulder, then clears his throat. Two men, an older gentleman and a younger one, approach our table, neither of them looking particularly jovial. “Looks like you have other fires to put out before then, Goswick.”

James Walker’s family have been tenants of Mistlethrush for generations, and he held my father in the highest regard. Me, a little less so, and judging by the look on his face, I’ve only gone down in his esteem since I’ve been away. I reach into my pocket, feeling for the reassurance of the handkerchief there.

“Gentlemen,” I say, standing and addressing Mr. Walker and his hulking son, Thomas. “What brings you to The Hearth and Hound this evening?”

“Wood,” says Mr. Walker.

I appreciate his perfunctory response, but I could use some elaboration. “Wood for what?”

“The fence. I told you last week that the sheep escaped and were tearing up the saplings, but we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since then, and the current fence is rotting away in the summer sun.”

“Wood rot, yes,” I say, pretending that I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Well, fresh wood you shall have.” I smile and wait for them to take their leave. “Is there something else?” I ask when they don’t budge.

“Don’t you need to know how much we’ll need?”

The blood rushes to my cheeks at this, and even Westley and Drummond chuckle under their breath. That should have been obvious. “Of course, of course. How much do you need?”

“Not sure, to be honest,” says Walker, and he rubs the gray-and-white stubble of his chin. “We were hoping you’d stop by and take a look for yourself. Maybe we can come to an agreement on what’s necessary. We’d value your opinion. We’d value your help.”

“My help ?” I ask. Surely he jests. Surely he can tell that I’ve never mended a fence in my life and that my presence will only hinder their progress.

“It’s too big a job for me and Thomas here,” says Walker, motioning toward his son. The boy is wide and well-fed, and if his forearms are any indication of the rest of his strength, then I can’t imagine there’s much in the world that’s too big a job for him.

“Well, I can certainly look into finding you the wood needed to mend the fence, gentlemen, and as for the rest…I-I’ll think of something,” I add lamely. “I promise. You can count on me.”

Mr. Walker eyes me with real doubt saturating his gaze, but he turns to leave. “Aye, sir. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Rather a stinging rebuke, but I suppose he does have a point.

Mr. Walker and Thomas amble away just as August returns, attempting to carry all four of our drinks back to the table. In what I’ll admit is perhaps one of the most effortless attempts to embarrass a gentleman, Thomas Walker passes him so closely that his massive shoulder hits into his, sending our drinks down August’s front.

“Looks like you’ve had a bit of an accident, sir,” says Thomas, his eyes wide with innocence as August stands there, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Thank you, yes,” is my brother’s tight reply.

Before I can even stand to assist him, August has returned to the table, silently seething, his face as red as a tomato.

“I’ll go get more,” says Westley, touching his upper arm. “You just dry off.”

“Why don’t you use some of those boxing skills Briggs has taught you to show that boy his place?” Drummond suggests. He leans back in his chair, his hands behind his head like this is the most obvious solution in the world.

I remain quiet on the subject. It’s clear my brother doesn’t need any more humiliation this evening.

“I’m going to help Westley,” August finally says, pushing himself away from the table and storming to where Westley has ordered us another round.

Lord Drummond slumps forward, collecting our cards and shuffling them once more. “So I suppose that brings us back to the topic of Miss Rowley and your unfortunate run-in with Mr. Dormer.”

I remain silent, not really interested in discussing this at length with a man I don’t know and therefore don’t trust yet. I’ve already dragged Miss Rowley’s name through the mud twice, and I can’t bring myself to leave her open to any more criticism.

“It’s been taken care of,” I assure him with as confident a grin as I can manage.

Westley appears with our drinks and hands one to each of us. “Here we are. Fresh drinks all around. But none for Briggs because he doesn’t know how to mend a fence. What about you, August?”

I shove Westley in the shoulder and then reach for my mug, but it dawns on me that August hasn’t returned. I crane my neck, scanning the room to see where he’s gone. “Where is my brother?” I ask.

Both Westley and Drummond turn to find him, but no luck.

The three of us split up, searching the tavern for any sign of my brother. It’s not a very large place, so it doesn’t provide too many ways for him to disappear.

“Goswick!” Drummond calls from across the room.

Westley and I turn to see him gesticulating toward a window.

“He’s outside with a few boys. Fists up.”

“Holy hell,” I say, throwing my head back and closing my eyes.

“You don’t think he’s going to fight one of them?” Westley asks.

“Yes, he’s going to fight one of them,” I reply, dashing to the door. Everything I’ve eaten today hardens into a rock in my stomach at the thought of my brother being eviscerated by his opponent. “And if I were a betting man, I’d wager money on it being Thomas Walker.”

We scramble for the exit, Westley and I becoming jammed in the threshold, but I shove my way forward. Rounding the back of the tavern, I witness a group of boys form a ring around my brother and his opponent of choice—Thomas Walker. I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t have taught him anything.

“He must be mad,” says Drummond, appearing beside us. “Walker’s twice August’s size!”

“This is typical of my brother,” I say. “He must always be the best. He must always know the most. Therefore, if I’ve taught him something about boxing, then he is naturally an expert, and he will beat Thomas Walker.”

“Will he?” Drummond asks.

“Of course not. Look at the shoulders on that man.”

“We should pull him out before he gets hurt,” Westley suggests.

“I can’t do that,” I say. “It will just embarrass him further. No one wants their big brother pulling them out before they get hurt.”

“Then we can instruct him from the sidelines,” says Drummond. He leads us through the throng of boys until we are behind August with a clear view of the match. “That’s it, August,” says Drummond as my brother dodges Thomas’s first punch and then nails him in the gut. “You’re doing fine. Just fine.”

But things go downhill rather quickly. It’s obvious that Thomas has assessed his opponent, and my tenant’s son is relentless.

“This is bad,” says Drummond. August takes several blows to the torso but manages to remain standing, to everyone’s astonishment. He wavers just slightly, and Drummond calls out, “August, defend your—” The stomach-lurching sound of the crunching of cartilage within August’s nose cuts Drummond off. “Face,” he says, grimacing.

Blood spurts from my brother’s nose as he collapses backward.

“My mother is going to kill me,” I mutter.

…

“August,” I say quietly, opening the door to his bedroom just a crack.

He’s propped up in his bed, half asleep, but he opens one swollen eye to view me. “Go away.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” I reply, placing the tray I’ve brought him on his bedside.

Since Blythe’s bit of advice at the picnic, I’ve become rather good at making trays for those in my household under the weather. And while Miss Dixon squealed when I attempted to bring her soup, then begged me to get out before I saw her in such a state, my brother has no such power over me.

“You’ve been sleeping all night and most of the morning, and I thought I might rally you for something to eat.” I sit beside him on his bed, lifting the bowl of broth and fanning its scent close to his face. “It’ll do you some good.”

“I’d rather just lie here and die.”

“Nonsense, you’ll make it through.” I skim the surface of the broth with a spoon and bring it to his mouth. Begrudgingly, he opens his lips and swallows. “But that will teach you to challenge boys who are larger than you to a fight.”

“He is unbeatable,” says August.

“I doubt that entirely,” I reply. “You only just began boxing. You shouldn’t have tried fighting with a boy who knows more than you do.”

August frowns. “I hardly think he knows more than I do about anything. It’s just brute strength. If I could not outwit him, it is only because his knuckles moved faster than my brain, and that is amazing .”

“Whatever makes you feel comfortable, brother.”

He leans forward and takes another spoonful of broth. “I thought I would win,” he says after a while.

“Quite clearly.” He takes another sip of broth, and though I know my friend will hang me for this, I have to make the offer anyway. “Westley and I are leaving for London in two days’ time to visit Uncle Richard. Will you come? I could introduce you to Sebastian, and you could have some real boxing lessons.”

“You really don’t waste any time, do you, brother? I just got punched in the face. I have a headache. Let me sleep.”

Slowly, I stand. “As you wish, August. If you need me, you know where I am.”

I pace to the door, but just before I disappear down the hall, I hear him say, “Maybe I’ll consider it.”

I smile and shut the door behind me.