“Sir, it isn’t proper—”
“I don’t give a flying damn what’s proper! I’m going to see my wife,” Uncle Dashiell insists, starting to push past Albie.
Albie grabs his arms, holding him back. Bobby steps awkwardly into the middle of the hallway, unsure of what to do. Are they really going to bodily restrain their uncle right now?
“You need to stay down here,” Albie says calmly. Bobby can’t fathom where he’s finding his serenity. “Mrs.Stelm, Mrs.Gilpe, MissWilson, and the girls have Aunt Cordelia. She is fine and doing well.”
“Your presence would only—” Verton starts.
“She’s mywife,” Uncle Dashiell spits.
“And she needs to focus on what she’s doing,” Albie says firmly.
Albie shoots Bobby a look and he wets his lips. “She can’t have a safe birth and keep you calm at the same time, Uncle,” he says, and his voice is a shaking thing.
Uncle Dashiell glares at him for a moment before slumping in Albie’s arms. “Fine. Fine. Come in.”
He pulls away from Albie and tromps back into the study, leaving Albie, Bobby, and Verton alone in the strangely silent hallway.
“Verton, please bring us a small breakfast, water, and the lord’s best scotch, would you?” Albie asks.
Verton nods and hurries down the hall and out of sight. Albie and Bobby stare at each other. For a moment, his brother’s eyes are large and Bobby feels just a bit better, knowing he’s out of his depth here too. But then Albie shutters it away, nodding at Bobby once before ushering him through the door.
Bobby steps into the study and looks around, aghast. What is usually an orderly, large room bordered with bookcases and enhanced by a nice sofa set, Uncle Dashiell’s large mahoganydesk, and an assortment of knickknacks, now looks like a war zone. Papers are strewn over every possible surface. One of the armchairs by the sofa has... fallen over? Or more likely been kicked, given the broken glass baubles by the window.
Uncle Dashiell paces between the settees and a low table, hands fisted in his paisley dressing gown.
“Sit down, Uncle,” Albie directs, gently maneuvering Uncle Dashiell into the remaining armchair while gesturing for Bobby to right the other.
Bobby does and then seats himself in it, feeling totally inadequate.
Uncle Dashiell scrubs at his face, staring blankly at the bookcases. Bobby glances at Albie and Albie looks back, equally at sea, until he smirks. Which is very unsettling.
“Bobby’s terribly hungover,” Albie announces.
“Oi!” Bobby says, flushing up to his ears.
Uncle Dashiell blinks at the two of them for a moment. “That’s right, the stag night. How was it?”
From the tightness around his eyes and the clench of his jaw, Bobby can tell Uncle Dashiell couldn’t care less, but it’ssomethinghe can offer. “Rowdy. Cunningham throws a great pub crawl, and Prince had a wonderful time. Demeroven and I saw him safely home. Hopefully he feels a tad bit better than I do this morning.”
Verton returns with a tray of scones and cream, three steaming mugs of tea, and glasses for the preposterously good bottle of scotch he’s brought. He sets it all down on the low table between the armchairs and settee and gives an unsure bow.
“I’m fine, Verton,” Uncle Dashiell says, offering a truly unconvincing smile. “Thank you.”
“Very good, my lord,” Verton squeaks, and then flees the room.
“What have you been doing to the poor man?” Albie asks.
“More likely Mrs.Gilpe put the fear of God into him lest he let me see my wife while she’s in labor,” Uncle Dashiell says, going straight for the scotch. “Hair of the dog?” he asks, pointing the bottle at Bobby once he’s poured his own glass.
“In my tea, sure,” Bobby says, holding out his mug for Uncle Dashiell to add a shot.
“That’s revolting,” Albie says.
Bobby takes a sip, and it is quite disgusting, but better than straight scotch at only ten in the morning. He tears off a piece of scone, dipping it into the cream.
“Bobby,” Albie protests, at the same moment Uncle Dashiell is swiping his own dollop with his own torn scone. “You’re both terrible.”
