Kindred Hearts (36 page)

“So,” MacQuarrie
said when Tristan walked into the hospital the next day, “you’re back. Mountjoy leave for Brussels?”

“Last evening,” Tristan said coolly. He set his hat on the shelf in the cloakroom and hung his greatcoat on the hook underneath. “They were to have left Dover on the morning tide.”

“I half expected you to vanish back into your social life, without Mountjoy to drag you here daily.”

“Did you?” Tristan checked his pocket watch, then said indifferently, “If you’ll excuse me, Dr. Crosby is about to start his rounds.”

“Stiff-necked young cub,” MacQuarrie said in amusement. “How’s Lottie holding up?”

“
Mrs. Northwood
,” Tristan snapped, “is fine.
If
you’ll excuse me?” He turned and stalked off down the corridor toward Crosby’s office.

He didn’t know why he was so short-tempered with MacQuarrie. The physician had always been friendly to both him and Charles. But the casual, offhand comments irked Tristan, touching as they did on a subject that was still painful.

He’d cried himself to sleep last night like a child, huddled in his cold, empty bed with only the blankets for comfort. He’d sprinkled his pillow with drops of the rosemary and eucalyptus oil to remind him of Charles, but that only made him miss him more. He knew he was acting like a small spoiled child, but he felt lost and lonely and alone. Only knowing that Charles was out there, loving him, missing him…. At least he
hoped
Charles was missing him. Was he? Or was he only grateful to be shut of Tristan’s clinging, whining presence? That brought on another spate of tears.

When he awoke in the morning, tired and drained, he considered just staying in bed for the day, pleading illness and indulging in selfish misery. But Charles would have frowned at such behavior, so he’d got up, washed his face, and set about the day as usual. His grief and the lack of sleep made him snappish, so he skipped his usual visits to his Bond Street haunts and went directly to the hospital. Here, at least, he would be distracted by the demands of people whose problems were far worse than just missing a lover.

Crosby and his phalanx of students were just gathering in the corridor outside his office; he eyed Tristan narrowly, but said only, “Glad you could join us, Mr. Northwood” in his sarcastic way. Tristan grinned and tipped an imaginary hat at the surgeon, then joined the other students in following him down the hall to the first ward.

“
Your
father’s invited us to go to the theater on Wednesday,” Charlotte said. She took a bite of the sole amandine Cook had produced for lunch. “It’s Kean, doing something Shakespearean. It’s been well received.”

Tristan swallowed the piece of fish he was chewing and said in surprise, “What difference does it make what’s playing?”

“I told him we’d be happy to attend.”

Her husband froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. Slowly he set it down and asked sharply, “And why would you do something so abysmally stupid?”

Ellen took in a breath of dismay. Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Oh, my,” she said coolly, “are we about to have a quarrel? I’d wondered what that was like.”

“We’re not about to have a quarrel,” Tristan snapped. “We’re not about to have even so much as a discussion. I’m not going. End of conversation.”

She pointed her fork at him. “Conversation’s not ended until I say it’s ended. You
are
going, and so am I. And so is Ellen.
And
we’re having supper afterwards at Grillon’s.”

“I have other plans.”

“No, you don’t. I checked with Reston,
and
with Mr. Gibson. He said you’d cried off from meeting him at Boodle’s because you wanted to spend an evening with me. And
I
am going to the play, so, so are you.” She ate another piece of fish.

“Perhaps I lied to Gibs,” Tristan said. “Perhaps I’m spending the evening with my mistress.”

“You don’t
have
a mistress,” Charlotte said complacently. “At least”—a forkful of green beans followed the fish and was chewed thoroughly before being swallowed—“not on England’s green shores.”

Tristan flushed angrily. “Much you know,” he spat. “And whether I want to spend the evening with my drunkard friends or not, you had no right to make, make
arrangements
for me specifically against my wishes.”

She blinked wide brown eyes at him. “Why, Tristan, you never
specifically
said you didn’t wish to go to the theater with your Papa.”

His jaw dropped. “Lottie! You are well aware of my feelings about my father! It’s disingenuous to say that you didn’t know what my wishes would be in regards to that!”

She smiled faintly. “Well, Tris, you’re right. I did know what you would have said, but I’ve decided it’s silly for you to go on with this chip on your shoulder about your father.”

“‘Chip on my shoulder’?” Tristan couldn’t believe his ears. “My father hates me, and I him. Why in
God’s
name would I want to go to the
theater
with him?”

“Don’t curse,” Lottie said placidly. “It upsets Ellen.”

He turned furious eyes on his wife’s companion, who squeaked in dismay. “No, it doesn’t,” he snapped, returning his gaze to his wife. “She’s sensible. Unlike you.”

“Oh, Tristan,” Charlotte said, chuckling, “that’s ridiculous. Not about Ellen. About me. You won’t find a more sensible woman—even Charlie says so.”

The mention of his lover’s name cut him. He rose, flinging his napkin down on the table beside his dish. “If you will excuse me,” he said icily.

“No,’ Lottie said. “Sit down, Tristan, and be reasonable.”

“I don’t
choose
to be reasonable,” he said in a low, fierce voice.

“Oh, dear. It appears we are going to quarrel after all. Ellen, if you would be so kind? I hate to disturb your lunch….”

“Oh, I am quite finished,” Ellen said, and she beat a hasty retreat.

Tristan remained standing, glowering down at his wife, who gazed back up at him and said thoughtfully, “You know, I believe that is the first time you’ve ever really been angry with me. Been anything at all, really. It’s an interesting change. You’re always so collected. Being with Charlie seems to have loosened something inside you.”

“Do
not
,” Tristan gritted out, “mention that, if you please.”

“Mention what?” she asked innocently. “Charlie? Charlie, Charlie, Charlie? My beloved brother Charlie? Charles Edward Mountjoy, major of the 14th, staff officer? The Honorable Charles Mountjoy, second son of the Earl of Chilson? Mount. Joy. There’s something… suggestive about my family name, don’t you think?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Tristan shouted.

“Because it’s so refreshing to see you
feeling
something for a change!”

He stared at her, shocked. She looked up at him from her chair, her face composed, but something fierce and angry in her eyes. “Sit down,” she said, the quietness of her voice belying the message in those eyes.

He sat. Wordlessly, he picked up his fork and ate some green beans.

Charlotte watched him. Finally, she said, “While you were ill, your father and I had a long talk about you. Since then, I have had supper with him on several occasions when you were otherwise engaged. I’d always accepted your interpretation of your relationship with him, and his behavior certainly never suggested otherwise. Our conversation on the day of your little performance was eye-opening, to say the least.”

“I suppose,” Tristan said bitterly, “you’re about to tell me that all these years he’s loved me and only wanted the best for me.”

“Actually, yes,” she said.

“If that isn’t like a woman,” he sneered.

“And if that isn’t like a man, to refuse to see beyond the nose on his face!”

“Oh, have we reached the insults stage of our quarrel?” he sniped. “I should like to know, not having had this experience before.”

“You began it,” she said dryly. “Now it’s your turn to say, ‘No,
you
started it.’ That’s how quarrels go, you know. They quickly devolve into meaningless posturing.”

“Listening to you speak one might think you were educated,” Tristan said. “Too bad spelling wasn’t part of your education.”

“Oh,
very
good,” she said approvingly. “We’re exchanging personal insults. One would think you
had
done this before.”

Despite his anger, this struck him as immensely funny, and he broke into an unwilling laugh. “Perhaps I might have,” he said, “if my sister had lived. We would have been like you and Daniel, perhaps, exchanging insults at every opportunity.”

“You would have been a much happier person,” she mused, “if you’d had someone to fight with on a regular basis. And I don’t really
argue
with Daniel; I just
annoy
him. He’s far too foolish to have a successful argument with.” She took another bite of fish. “And I am a perfectly good speller—in German. English spelling isn’t
sensible
. Besides, I do it on purpose. I got into the habit to annoy my governess and Papa, and now I do it to annoy the Army censors and you. I admit to not being a
good
speller, but my regular correspondence is quite comprehensible.”

“Well, not understanding German, I can’t verify that claim,” Tristan said with a grin. “So you can say anything you like on the subject without refutation.”

“I know,” she said smugly. “Now. About the theater.”

He felt the grin slide from his face. “An entire evening in my father’s company?” he said bitterly. “What evil have I ever done you, Charlotte?”

“That is a leading question, Tris, and I won’t deign to answer,” she said, smiling back at him. “Seriously, I’m not saying you should fall into each other’s embrace and let bygones be bygones and all that nonsense. I just think you should attempt some level of courtesy for Jamie’s sake; he should learn to know his grandfather.”

Tristan looked down at his plate and stirred his vegetables uneasily. He remembered too well the letter he’d written to Charlotte the night he’d planned his death, and the concern he’d had that his father would intimidate and hurt Jamie the way he had hurt Tristan. If Jamie was familiar with his grandfather, and Charlotte were there to buffer his comments, it might be better for Jamie than it had been for himself. Jamie might even grow used to his grandfather’s gruff ways and not take them as seriously as Tristan always had. He swallowed hard, then said, “For Jamie.”

“And the new baby,” Lottie said, reaching over to pat his hand. “It will be quite all right, you’ll see.”

It wasn’t
quite “all right,” but it was tolerable. Tristan greeted his father politely, as strangers do; his father reciprocated. They sat beside each other on the rear-facing seat in the carriage, conversing individually with Lottie and Ellen; they sat separated by the ladies and thus excused from conversation during the play. At Grillon’s, however, they sat at a table for four, with Tristan and his father opposite, in a private alcove off the main restaurant. They settled the ladies, ordered their supper, and then Lottie said brightly to Tristan, “Tris, tell your papa what you said during the courtroom scene. It was so amusing.”

“I doubt the baron would find it so, my dear,” Tristan said politely. “Ellen, are you sure you want the filet? I’ve heard that the chicken is quite superior.”

“The filet will be fine, Tristan,” Ellen said.

“I should like to hear what you said, Tristan,” the baron said quietly.

Tristan didn’t look up. He stared at his plate a long moment, then took a drink of water. “It was nothing,” he said. “I’ve forgotten.”

His father didn’t respond, but a moment later said, “Lottie tells me you have begun studying medicine with her brother.”

“No,” Tristan said, “I’ve begun studying surgery, not medicine. And it’s nothing. Just another current interest that will die as quickly as the rest of them, no doubt.” He took another drink, wishing it were brandy. “It will come in handy when I need to stitch up one of my friends after another pub brawl.”

“Tristan,” Lottie said in a low voice.

“Well, Lottie, what would you have me say? It doesn’t matter, anyway.” He looked up then and met his father’s eye. “I was not happy with Lottie when she informed me she had accepted this invitation. I’m sure neither of us really wants to be here, so let’s just not pretend, hey?”