The world was winter-still. Only the sound of their footfalls on the pebble path and the far-off lowing of cattle interrupted the silence.
“You must understand Ian was the best of brothers,” Alex said into the quiet. “Many men complain about their elder brothers, how they teased and tormented. But not Ian. Even though I was six years his junior, he always welcomed me following him about the estate, helping with the horses. It is not too far to say that I worshiped Ian as a lad. Even after my falling out with my father, Ian regularly wrote and visited me in Edinburgh. He gave me a portion of his monthly allowance, anything to help me meet my ambitions.”
He swallowed again.
Lottie sensed that he needed a moment, a brief space to gather his thoughts, to remember the good and not dwell too long on the bad.
“Two years before I graduated with my medical degree, Ian suffered a horrific injury. King Arthur, Galahad’s sire, was a temperamental beast at best. A magnificent stallion but difficult to manage. The stallion kicked Ian, breaking his arm and shattering his right leg.”
“Oh, gracious!”
“Aye. We were all panic-stricken, worried that Ian would die. But he was always a fighter, my brother. His leg had to be amputated—”
“Oh, Alex! How awful!” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “No wonder you were so distraught over your own injuries!”
“The similarities were terrifying, I willnae lie,” he chuckled, dry and mirthless. “As you can imagine, Ian’s recovery was long and painful. His arm was slow to heal, and the pain from his phantom missing leg was agonizing.”
“I have heard of this. That after an amputation, it can feel as if the limb is still there and hurting.”
“Exactly. In order to bear it all, Ian turned to laudanum in heavier and heavier quantities.” Alex paused, leaning on his crutches, looking sightlessly over the dead garden. His eyes darted to hers. “I should tell you that the men in my family display a predilection toward excess. My father was prone to drunkenness. I am sure ye can see where this sad tale is headed. It did not take long for my brother to find himself in the thralls of opium.”
“He became an addict?”
Alex nodded. A slicing up-and-down motion. “He devolved into an opium eater. Have you read De Quincey’sConfessions of an Opium Eater?”
“Yes. It is rather engrossing.”
“It is, but do not let De Quincey’s whimsical narrative persuade ye into thinking that such a habit is not devastating. Everything I loved about my brother disappeared into his addiction. He became sullen and morose, his moods swinging wildly between euphoria and melancholy. I was in my final year of university, and—here I must admit to some shame—I did not fully appreciate the extent of Ian’s crisis. I was too busy in my studies to give my brother the attention he needed. My father did what he could to help, but he had his own demons to fight . . .” Alex drifted off.
Lottie easily filled in what he did not say. If his brother was struggling, then his father had likely turned more and more to the bottle to deal with the stress.
“The business began to suffer. Even though he was mobile with a peg leg, Ian began to make costly mistakes. His moods were frightening, the laudanum addling his thinking. Over the Christmas holidays, Father begged me to speak with Ian, to see what I could do.”
Alex leaned on his crutches and looked away, eyes glassy.
Lottie stretched out a hand, as if to . . . what? Wrap her arms around him in comfort? Stroke his face and to tell him that she didn’t need to know, that he didn’t need to expose his pain?
But they had removed that physical realm from their relationship. Touching him was a forbidden land she didn’t dare trespass upon.
She let her hand fall.
He looked back to her.
“Dinnae look like that, lass.” He smiled gently, eyes still unnaturally bright. “Ye were right. I ken that speaking of Iandoeshelp the wound heal a wee bit more each time. But like all effective medicines, it tastes right terrible in the moment.” He shook his head. “Let me finish this. I found Ian in the stables. He was clearly in the middle of an opiate fit, waving a dueling pistol round and round. I tried to speak with him, but it all went south. He was out of his mind, shouting that King Arthur needed to share in his misery. He shot the stallion in the leg with his pistol. Then he pulled the second dueling pistol from his pocket and, looking me in the eye, turned the gun on himself.”
Lottie gasped, the air simply whooshing from her lungs.
She closed her eyes, as if somehow she could take the memory from his sight.
Towatcha beloved brother take his own life in such a fashion.
To live with the grief and memory of it, again and again, every day.
To worry, endlessly, that the weakness of such excess ran in his own veins. That the slightest slip in himself might lead to a similar end.
“Oh, Alex,” she whispered, opening her eyes and looking into his, trying to communicate her empathy in ways that words failed.
He nodded and leaned more heavily on his crutch.
