Kindred Hearts (18 page)

“Good heavens,” Charlotte said. “I hope not!”

She watched the review. Tristan watched Charles.

It was moments like this that Tristan could understand the appeal of the military. It wasn’t so much the spectacle of the review, the flash and polish, but the way they all moved together, parts of an entity, each element belonging to the whole. He could almost feel it, in a secondhand sort of way: how the individual could take pride in the regiment, in the control and ritual and obedience to the ones in charge.
It must be lovely
, he thought,
to have orders to follow, and to follow willingly; to have a shared goal and the will to achieve it
.

He wondered if he hadn’t made the wrong decision four years ago; if he should have taken his father’s offer of a commission in the cavalry. Would he still feel as he did, that he had no future, no reason to go on? Or would the shared goals of these officers and soldiers have been enough to keep him going?

Wryly, he shook his head. It was just a spell cast by the spectacle and panoply before him. He would have been no happier in the military than he was now. He’d never been one to blindly follow orders; his relationship with his father was certainly proof of that. And at least he had Jamie to show for it. The military would not have kept him happy.

What did it do to keep Charles happy?

After
the review was over, they bought some chestnuts from a vendor and Tristan broke them up, feeding them carefully to Jamie so that he didn’t choke. “Chew,” he said sternly, and Jamie chewed until Tristan gave him permission to swallow. Then he pointed over Tristan’s shoulder. “Ho’sie!”

They turned to see Charles standing behind them, his hand on Paragon’s bridle. “Did you enjoy the show, Jamie?”

“Ho’sies!” Jamie chortled. “So’jers an’ ho’sies!”

“Of which the far more important are the ho’sies, correct, James?” Tristan asked his son.

“Ho’sies!” Jamie pointed at Paragon. “Unca Cholly ho’sie!”

“Yes, it is. This is Paragon. Can you say ‘Paragon’, Jamie?”

“Pahgon,” Jamie said obediently. “Pat ho’sie, Unca Cholly!”

“Is it safe?” Charlotte asked again.

“Oh, Paragon is well-named,” Charles said. “Jamie will come to no harm. Here.” He held his arms out to Tris, who surrendered Jamie to him. Jamie patted the horse’s cheek gently and laughed when the horse quivered its skin.

Charles said, “Might I take him up before me?”

Lottie looked anxious, but Tris nodded. “Of course,” he said. “He’ll be getting his own pony soon enough. I’ve had him up before—although generally in the country, on one of the milder-mannered hacks.”

“Not on the Brat, I hope?” Charles smiled.

“Heavens, no!” Lottie exclaimed. “That horse is beastly. It
bit
my Jenny last week.”

“Your Jenny will flirt with him,” Tristan said, “and he thinks he’s still intact, not a gelding. She’s lucky she got away with just a nip.” He took Jamie from Charles until his brother-in-law was back in the saddle, then handed him up.

“Oh, be careful, Charlie!” Charlotte said.

Jamie was beatific. When Charles had completed his careful circuit of the parade grounds, he insisted on giving “Pahgon” a kiss to thank him for the ride. Then Charles handed him back to Tristan and promised to see them later after he was finished here.

Tristan and Charlotte made their way back to their carriage. The crowd had dissipated while they waited for Jamie’s return, so they were able to get through the few streets around the Horse Guards without difficulty. Jamie chattered the whole time about the ho’sies and Pahgon and Unca Cholly.

“It was kind of your brother to take Jamie up with him,” Tristan said diffidently when Jamie’s prattle eased.

“Charlie is a very kind person,” Lottie agreed. “I find it so difficult to comprehend what kept him in the military this long. I certainly wouldn’t like to go through what they must, and to kill people.”

“No,” Tristan said. “I understand that even for an officer, it’s a difficult life. But I suppose it must have its compensations. Camaraderie, a sense of purpose, a sense of being a part of something.”

“Mm, perhaps.” Lottie fed Jamie more pieces of roasted chestnut. “And after all, he’s been doing it so long. And he’s not your average officer, of course, being on Lord Wellington’s staff and Lord Castlereagh’s and working as liaison with the Germans and all that. I suppose that would be interesting work.”

“I suppose,” Tristan said doubtfully. “I’ve heard that Wellington is not easy to work for. Charles is a very patient person.”

“Oh, Charlie’s about as patient as one can be,” Lottie said. “He used to drive Daniel insane. We’re both just—what’s the word?—phlegmatic. Like our mother.”

“Well, Daniel’s certainly not that,” Tristan said. They had arrived at the carriage; the footman George held the door for Lottie. Tristan handed Jamie up, and then jumped into the carriage, settling in the backward-facing seat across from Lottie. George closed the door and a moment later the carriage moved off.

“Speaking of relatives,” Charlotte said, “my great-aunt Callista has invited us to visit next Thursday. She lives out at Richmond. If you’ve other plans, Charlie has said he’ll be happy to escort myself and Ellen.”

“Thursday? I suppose….”

“It isn’t necessary, Tris,” Charlotte assured him. “I know you’d be bored, so if you’d prefer not to go, it’s not a problem. Aunt Callista really wants to see Charlie, anyway.”

“And she doesn’t like me,” Tristan said with a twisted grin.

“Well—no. She thinks you’re a flibbertigibbet.”

“And who am I to argue?” Tristan said lightly. He turned to gaze out the window at the gray January sky.

Tristan
opened the door to the library and was disappointed to find the room empty and dim, lit only by the fire in the hearth. Right—Charles had taken Charlotte and Ellen to visit some old relative who lived out in Richmond. The past few nights, he’d come home to find Charles in residence, poring over his strange books after a day of following his mentor around or observing patients or whatever it was he did in his physician training. It had been wonderful to sit and talk to him, to discuss what Charles was reading, or pick up whatever book he himself had been reading the night before, or look at whatever it was Charles had set aside for him. He rubbed his head tiredly. He would miss Charles tonight, but perhaps that was for the best. He slept better when he was drunk, and though the conversation was invigorating to the intellect, it wasn’t conducive to relaxation. Too often he laid awake, going over in his head what he’d said, what Charles had said, thinking about both the topics of conversation and the unspoken topics that haunted him. And then when he did sleep, it was to dream, and the nightmares were growing worse.

Last night he’d torn himself away from Charles’s company at midnight to go upstairs, where he had had Reston leave a bottle of brandy. He’d drunk himself to sleep, anesthetized by the alcohol to the point that at least the dreams didn’t wake him.

He’d been no less tired when he’d woken this morning, though.

Charles had never said anything about his drinking, though Tristan knew that he disapproved. Not by any overt expression, but by a faint look of sadness in his eyes whenever Tristan lifted a glass. He supposed he should be angry—how dare Charles judge him—but he wasn’t. It made him sad too. And he didn’t feel like Charles was really judging him, not the way his father always had. The look had more of a sense of grief, as if Charles really cared about Tristan.

Right.

Tris poured himself a glass of brandy and brought it and the bottle to the desk, and settled behind it in the big chair that Charles usually co-opted. The lamp wick needed trimming, and he did so, then lit the lamp. Using the key on his watch fob, he opened the lower desk drawer and took out his current journal from the set in the deep drawer. He’d always kept a journal. His mother had given him the first, and he remembered how excited he had been to see the blank pages waiting for his pencil. He still had that small, battered leather book, buried deep in the bottom of the pile.

He sat for a moment, his hand on the leather cover of the journal, then opened it to where the piece of blotting paper marked the last entry. It was dated five days ago, and was brief.

Obsession getting worse. Damn’d if I can write about it here; can’t leave evidence to hang me. Enough to say my dreams are too vivid. What can I do?

What, indeed?

He leaned his head on his fist, longing to write all that he was feeling, just as he had for the last twenty-some years. In those journals he’d poured out all the grief from the loss of his mother, his anger at his father, his loneliness at being sent away to school; his first fight, his first drink, his first lover. The names of all the subsequent ones, with detailed notes about what each particularly liked, and, eventually, what about each of them he disliked enough to end the relationship. He’d found it easy enough to chronicle those obsessions—why not this one?

Why not?

He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter in his ears. God, why not? For the past six months, he’d been carefully preparing his finances with the intention of ending his life. His plans were set; once Charlotte and the children were comfortably settled in the country, he would return to London and blow his brains out.
That
had never been in question; still wasn’t. His lust for Charles—his
doomed
lust for Charles—was only another reason why his plans needn’t change. Why shouldn’t he pour out his longing, his yearning, for this unattainable paragon? He’d just have to be sure never to mention him by name, so that his reputation would remain unsullied, in case the journal was discovered before he could put his plans into action. And in the end, it would be simple enough to burn the journal before he put the barrel into his mouth.

He opened the inkwell, dipped his pen, and began to write.

It was
quite late when Charles and the ladies returned to the townhouse; the footman who opened the door was yawning and his wig was askew. “Go to bed, George, as soon as you’ve locked up,” Lottie said. “We shan’t be needing anything else this evening.”

“Ma’am,” he said, tugging his forelock, and turned back to the door to throw the heavy bolts. “Just as soon as I fetch Mr. Reston and Will.”

“George, is Mr. Northwood still up?” Charles asked casually, hiding his dismay. If George was calling on Reston and the other footman, that could mean only that Tristan was drinking again. Damn; but then again it had only been a few days—certainly too soon to break Tristan’s habit.

“Aye, sir. In the library, as usual.”

Charlotte sighed faintly. “Oh, dear,” she said.

“Go on up, Lottie,” Charles instructed, then turned to George. “There’s no point in disturbing Mr. Reston. You and I should be sufficient to get Mr. Northwood to bed. Lottie, light the candles in the upper hall; I’ll snuff them after we get Tristan tucked up.”

“Certainly,” Lottie acquiesced.

Charles rapped lightly on the library door, then opened it. The lamp on the desk guttered low, illuminating Tristan’s dark head as he sprawled half-on the desk, his fingers curled around an empty glass. The equally empty bottle lay on the floor beside the desk.

Tristan opened his eyes and said blearily, “Bloody brandy’s gone.”

“I see that,” Charles said.

“You weren’t here to talk to,” his brother-in-law went on, his voice accusing. He raised his head and glared at Charles.

“No, I wasn’t. But I’m here now.”

“I’m drunk,” Tristan retorted. “Bloody buggering good that does now.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Still, I’ll sleep tonight, I s’pose.”

“I s’pose you will.”

“Don’t bloody fucking mock me, you arrogant prick!” Tristan roared.

Charles felt more than heard George, behind him, step back further out into the hall. “I beg your pardon,” he said coolly.

Tristan stared at him a long moment, then said in a low voice, “Ballocks.” Shaking his head, he sat back in the chair and stared at the desk a moment. No, not at the desk, but at a small book lying there. With an audible sigh, he reached down and opened a drawer in the desk, setting the book inside before closing it, and with the overly careful movements of the inebriated, locked the drawer. Then he rose from the chair, leaning heavily on the desk a moment before stumbling toward the door.

Charles caught his arm as he fumbled past him. “Tris,” was all he said, but Tristan froze, not looking at him, but staring bitterly out into the hall. Then something, some tension, some repressed tautness, drained out of him and he slumped against the wall. “Ballocks,” he muttered again, then rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Charlie. I didn’t—you weren’t—sorry.”

He closed his fingers around Tristan’s elbow, and drew it over his shoulder. “Come on, lad, let’s get you upstairs.” He nodded at George, who took his other arm and guided them to the stairs.

In Tristan’s room, he dismissed George with a smile and closed the door, turning back to where Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, his hands limp in his lap and his face expressionless. “Let’s get you to bed,” he said softly.

A deep shudder wracked Tristan’s lean frame, and he covered his face with his hands. Concerned, Charles murmured “Tris?” and crouched beside him, his hand on Tristan’s knee. “Are you all right?”

“I’m drunk,” Tristan said, the words muffled.

“I know.”

“I’m always bloody drunk. Do you know that? Ale for breakfast, wine with dinner, brandy before bed. Last night I went drunk to bed again. It was the only way….”

“Only way what?”

“Only way to sleep.”

“Tris….”

Tristan laughed, the sound harsh. “In the words of the Bard: ‘I have bad dreams’.”

“What about?”

This time the laugh was very nearly a sob. “Oh, I can’t tell you about that. Least of all you.”

“What can you tell me?”

The other man rubbed his face again. “I have forty thousand pounds in the Funds,” he said matter-of-factly. “Not specifically me: they’re in a trust held for Charlotte and Jamie. I have the interest from it during my lifetime.”

“Was this something your father set up?” Charles probed. Was this what made Tristan so bitter? That his wealth was not his own, but locked into a trust, as if he could not be trusted to manage it like a man?

“My father?” Tristan laughed. “Oh, hardly. I don’t know what his financial arrangements for Jamie are, although as long-headed as he is, I’m sure he has some. No,
I
built this for them. Once Lottie and I married we had more than enough income for our living expenses so I invested the excess. I was lucky. And in the last few years I’ve sold off whatever assets that weren’t necessary, and invested that. So I wanted you to know: Lottie will never be left bankrupt by me.”

“I never thought it could happen,” Charles said gently.

“I wanted you to know. I’m not as useless as all that.” Tristan hiccoughed quietly. “I’m a sad, pathetic excuse for a man but I’m not completely useless.”

“Who says?” Charles demanded, his ire rising.

“Everyone. It’s a fact. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.” Tristan began unwrapping his cravat. “Everyone knows it—Tristan Northwood, womanizer, drunk, fool. Don’t trust him with your women, your liquor or your money.” He dropped the cravat on the floor and began on the buttons of his waistcoat.

Charles tugged on Tristan’s boot. “Pull your foot up,” he instructed, then he went on, “I’ve heard nothing of the sort. Most people speak well of you, at least nowadays. Of course I can’t deny that I’ve heard stories of your antics when you were single, but you’ve steadied since Jamie was born.” One Hessian off, he reached for the other.