“I know,” Albie says.
If Aunt Cordelia... if something happens—Bobby doesn’t think he can stand losing his uncle, and his new aunt, and their baby. Not now. Not after everything—
“I will not actually throw myself into the Thames,” Uncle Dashiell says.
Bobby blinks and finds both Uncle Dashiell and Albie looking at him in concern. “Right,” he mumbles, horrified to find he’s let a tear slip down his cheek. “I’m sorry, I’m—I might still be drunk?”
Uncle Dashiell laughs, surprised, and Albie claps him on the back. Bobby smiles through it, a knot in his stomach.
“Someday we’ll find you a wonderful partner, Bobby, and you can take all that heart and give it to them,” Uncle Dashiell says. He then turns to Albie and begins what promises to be a lengthy discussion about parliamentary procedure.
Bobby listens to their conversation as though through a haze. Not only does Uncle Dashiell want an earth-shattering love for him, but he didn’t—he didn’t saywife. He saidpartner. Granted, the man is more agitated than Bobby’s ever seen him, worrying about the possible death of his wife and unborn child, but still.
If Bobby can have a great love, he wants what they have. He won’t be content with trysts in corners, much less a traditional marriage where he has to hide his true desires from his wife, along with the world. He won’t survive trying to bury his feelings with propriety. He wants something real.
Around the third hour of pained screaming and Albie’s increasingly frantic recitations of cholera statistics, Gwen bursts into the study. Uncle Dashiell stands up immediately, knockinginto the coffee table and sending their used cups crashing to the floor.
“Papa, come see. Come meet your son.”
Without hesitation, Uncle Dashiell takes off at a sprint, grabbing Gwen’s wrist and dragging her along as she shrieks with glee. Albie and Bobby follow, and even after their frantic dash up the stairs, Bobby feels like he can take his first true breath all day when they run into the bedroom suite.
There Aunt Cordelia sits, Beth beside her in the enormous bed, both of them grinning down at a squirming little bundle. All three alive. All three well. All three beaming and beautiful.
Gwen guides Uncle Dashiell around to the opposite side of the bed, and Bobby watches, tears liberally falling down his cheeks, as his uncle carefully climbs onto the bed, weeping, and reaches out to kiss his wife. Aunt Cordelia smiles into his mouth, her brown hair sweaty, cheeks flushed. She takes his free hand to rest it against the crown of the little baby’s head.
Bobby startles as a man steps up to Albie. “Thank you, Doctor,” he hears his brother say, watches him pass the short, bespectacled man an envelope with payment. Watches the man take his bag of medical supplies and quietly leave the room.
When did... How did Albie know to take care... Albie wraps his arm around Bobby’s shoulders and Bobby decides to forget about the doctor and all the hours of uncertainty that just passed. He leans into his brother, watching their uncle, aunt, cousin, and Beth as they all marvel at the miracle that is—
“Frederic Jonathan Bertram?” Aunt Cordelia asks, looking up at Uncle Dashiell. “For your brother?”
“Perfect,” Uncle Dashiell says, so much emotion in his voice that Bobby lets out a quiet sob of his own.
Gwen looks over at him, her arms wrapped around Beth,chin resting on her shoulder as Beth leans against Aunt Cordelia, Frederic holding her finger.
See?Gwen mouths.
Bobby nods and Albie chuckles.
This is what he wants. He wants a love like this. A family like this. He doesn’t know how to have it. But there must be a way.
It doesn’t have to be Demeroven, even if he can’t stop thinking about him.Friendshardly seems like enough now as he watches Beth and Gwen coo over the baby, wrapped up in each other and happy. Beth and Gwen found a way. Surely, he can find a way to make it work for himself.
And though it doesn’t have to be Demeroven... couldn’t it be? Couldn’t they find a way?
Chapter Sixteen
James
James slumps in his seat, his shoulder brushing Lord Mason’s. Even Lord Mason is yawning, his penchant for decorum no match for Lord What’s-his-face and his mind-numbing, unending speech about governmental oversight today.
Unfortunately, without something to actually focus on in session, James can’t help but return to memories of Prince’s stag night, to his hand on Mason’s chest, to their declaration offriends. Nor can he forget the way his chest felt strangely hollow when neither Mason nor Lord Mason attended the wedding. And then the further blow of discovering his aunt had given birth without anyone bothering to notify him.
He doesn’t know when it started to matter to him what the whole family thought of him, strange unrelated relations that they are. More than that, when did it start to make him antsy to go a few days without seeing Mason? It was his decision to keep him at arm’s length, after all. Friends, and nothing more.
But his traitorous brain keeps replaying their kisses, keeps remembering how lovely their easy camaraderie was. He can’t focus on anything. He’s hardly eating. His sleep is shit. Mason has ruined him, and he’s not even allowed him to do it properly.
Lord Mason elbows him, sitting up straight in his seat. James follows suit by reflex.
