“No, no.” Henry rubbed at his forehead. “The walk will do me good, I think. Thank you for your time.”
The butler’s expression cracked enough for Henry to see the shadow of a smile. “Not at all, Lord Eynsham.”
Oliver may have become unexpectedly responsible since learning the true nature of their financial position, but he was still a boy of eighteen, and although it was an ungodly hour when Henry stumbled back into the house, Oliver had just arrived home.
He frowned at the boy, trying to see straight. “What were you doing?”
“Cockfight,” Oliver said, and sniffed. He recoiled. “Good God! Are youdrunk?”
Henry was obliged to lean against the ornate post at the bottom of the stairs. It was carved in the shape of a sleeping dragon and he would miss it dearly, just as he would miss everything when they finally left this place.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I believe I am.”
For a long moment, Oliver merely stared at him. The snub-nosed boy he had been looked distinctly more dangerous in this half-light—a fierce, eagle-eyed adult, freckles disappearing and hair tamed. They looked nothing alike, Henry with his dark hair and Oliver with his blonde. Even their eyes were different. But there was that Beaumont stubbornness, manifested in different ways.
Then he stepped closer. “Have you ever been drunk before, Henry?”
“Once or twice when I was younger,” he said, moving away from the support of his post. The world felt distinctly less stable without it. “This is the first time in—a decade?” He frowned, trying to remember. He’d kept his head more or less when he was playing, but the worst of it had hit when he was walking home, and even the cold air had been insufficient to sober him.
“Here, let me help you upstairs,” Oliver said, finally coming within gripping distance and heaving Henry’s arm—which felt rather too heavy for a mere appendage—over his shoulders.“What brought this on?” he asked, a little timidly. “If you don’t mind saying, that is.”
The answer was that he needed something from Markham, but the truth was more sordid: he had allowed himself to break his careful rules because he no longer cared.
“Because I’m tired,” he said as he stumbled upstairs. “And, quite rightly, no one seems to notice how tired I am.”
“You never let anyone see.”
“Whelp.”
“It’s true,” Oliver protested. “And I’m only saying this now because you won’t remember tomorrow. But how can anyone help if you never let them?”
“Because the person who, for most of my life, should have been the one to help has been the one causing the majority of my problems.” Henry swayed at the top of the stairs, and Oliver steadied him. “That doesn’t endear one to the prospect of asking for help.”
“Not everyone is like Father.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. With Oliver guiding him, he made his way to his bedchamber. A cold, stark room lacking most creature comforts. Another sacrifice he had made for the good of his family—and that had gone all but no way towards repairing the damage done to the estate.
“Must we sell the house?” Oliver asked plaintively, ducking out from under Henry’s arm.
Henry put a hand against the door, but it gave way underneath him and he staggered inside. The room was dark, his bed a mere black mass at the other end of the room. Somewhere was his washbasin and nightshirt. He decided he would not attempt to find either.
“No. But it’s none of your concern. You will go to university, and then you will find yourself an occupation.”
Oliver’s smile was small and self-deprecating. “Such as the army? Or perhaps I should find a living?”
“Contemplate your options once you’ve graduated.” He hesitated, his mind turning in slow circles as he turned over what he wanted to say in his head. “Whatever you choose, I will support you to the best of my ability. But no more debts, if you please.” He gave a creaking smile that felt as though it had come from the depths of his past, though it was only before the crisis of their current situation. A few days had turned into years in the sticky honey of his thoughts. “At least, not until we can afford to pay them off.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE PAST
February 1806
Louisa sat sightlessly, a handkerchief clutched in one hand, a fistful of her black, scratchy mourning dress in the other. Her chest felt as though it had been callously carved out with a spoon, grief tapping staccato against her ribs.
Her cousin, a man she had never seen before that day, leant towards her, his expression a mask of concern. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Louisa wanted to throw a vase at him. And then she wanted to scream.
