James is the one to stumble backward at that, the words punching him like a physical blow. “I don’twantthat,” he whispers. “I don’t want it to be this way,” he insists as Bobby just stares at him, looking so heartbroken James might start crying.
“Well, that’s something at least, isn’t it?” Bobby says, his voice rough.
They stand for a long moment, staring at each other in a shared, shattered agony. James doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know if he wants to say anything at all. Nothing seems enough.
“We do need to get back upstairs.”
Both of them jump. Gwen steps out of the water closet, her face pink, eyes a little shiny.
At least one of them gets to cry about this.
“You take her up. I’ll wait a while,” James suggests, glancing at Bobby before forcing a false smile for Gwen.
“Right. Good for appearances. Come along, Gwen,” Bobby says, holding out his arm.
Gwen steps around James and lays her hand on his shoulder for a moment before she takes Bobby’s arm. And then he watches them walk away, down the hall, around the corner, and up the stairs. Until he’s alone in the water closet hallway, back where he started at the beginning of the season.
He has to find a way to fix this. There has to be a way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bobby
Bobby rolls his neck as he stands on the Havenfort doorstep. Spending the past week sitting up nights with Albie, researching and finalizing documents for the Medical Act while also going through their father’s ledgers from the past ten years, has left him with a permanent twinge in his neck and a dull ache at the base of his skull.
It’s been good—refreshing, actually—to work with Albie. He feels like they’re finding a rhythm. The subtle distance between them is totally gone. And with Meredith finally in residence, the house feels like a home for the first time all season.
Better still, the constant, steady work has kept him so busy he’s had no time to dwell on that heart-wrenching conversation at the banquet. None at all. Nor can he spare even a moment of daylight to think about the pain in James’ eyes, or the way it feels like someone is permanently sitting on his chest.
The door to the Havenfort townhouse opens and MissWilson peeks out at him. “Oh, Miss Bertram will be pleased,” she says, beckoning him in. “And Mrs.Stelm has about twelve different types of cakes all made up. Mrs.Gilpe went to market, but she’ll want to see you as well.”
“How are you, MissWilson?” Bobby asks, hoping he’s not blushing.
He loves Mr. Tilty and their staff, but nowhere is as comfortable or frankly full of feminine affection as the Havenfort home. It’s always like walking into a strong hug.
“I’m well, I’m well. Though I must say, Lord Demeroven’s chef took me for a good portion of what I’m worth at our game of whist last night.”
Bobby’s heart stutters at the mention of James, but he pushes through. “I’m sure you’ll take him back. James says he gets gossipy if you get him tipsy.”
“Can always count on you, Mr.Mason,” she says, leading him up to the sitting room.
He’s kept his days so busy that he can only focus on the ache in his broken heart when he tries to sleep. And then the great expanse of his bed and the loss of heat from wrapping James in his arms comes back to him, and he tosses and turns until sunrise. He’s mostly running off tea.
“I’ll bring treats in a few,” MissWilson says as she opens the sitting room door. Then she’s gone in a blink, off to continue whatever business his arrival interrupted.
He shakes his head and steps into the sitting room. Beth sits in a rocking chair scooched close to the fire, wearing a well-loved green morning gown he thinks might be Gwen’s. She keeps a steady rock and smiles down at her little brother, murmuring to him. It’s a lovely picture and he almost doesn’t want to intrude.
“Oh, there’s Cousin Bobby,” Beth says, looking up to smile at him.
He pads over to lean down and greet Beth with a kiss to her cheek. He strokes a finger along Frederic’s little cherubic cheek too, and the baby smiles.
Beth juts her chin for him to sit in an armchair opposite her rocker. Bobby does as told, plopping down into the worn bluechair. The heat from the fire engulfs him immediately and he stretches, content to sit with Beth as long as she wants company.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine,” Beth says, looking back down at Frederic. “We’re just fine, aren’t we?” she asks the baby.
But this close, there’s a tightness to her eyes. And Gwen isn’t here. “Beth,” Bobby says.
