“Of course they didn’t. I would never have allowed it. Don’t attribute our situation to her lack of initiative. I sheltered her and gave her everything I could. Why should we both suffer the folly of our father?”
“Why should you take the burden entirely on yourself?” he returned.
“Because I am the elder,” she said simply. “And because I love her.”
His chest twinged, and he fought to keep his anger from his face. When Isabella had mentioned her father dying, the implication had been that nothing much had changed. She had posed it as though she and Emily were equals, yet her hands had been soft, her clothes warm and elegantly made up, if a few years out of fashion.
She had never sacrificed herself for Emily, but it seemed as though Emily had done nothing but sacrifice.
“And when Isabella marries, what will you do?” Would she continue to live in her forgotten, rotting house, scraping for every penny so she might survive?
The picture pained him.
Gently, she withdrew her hand from his. “Don’t pity me, Oliver. I’ll be fine.”
“The same fine you were when you nearly collapsed because a brick hit your head?” he demanded hotly. “Forgive me for wanting something better for you.”
“We can all want something better for ourselves.” She tilted her head a little. “Tell me about this brother you’re fleeing from. Is he stern? Cruel?”
“I can see what you’re doing, changing the subject in order to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
“Are you certain you wish to know about Henry?”
“I find myself curious.”
“About him and not me?” He clasped a dramatic hand to his heart, but when she remained unmoved, he sighed. “My brother is the eminently more responsible and respectable son, and he will inherit the earldom when my father passes on. He is ten years my senior, and he can be stern, but not cruel.” Oliver sighed. “My father neglects all responsibilities where possible, and so my brother picked them all up. He wants me to do the same.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Despite himself, Oliver’s ears flamed. He disliked the thought of losing whatever regard she might now hold for him, but the thought of lying to her—or playing his inadequacies off as mere carelessness and indifference—seemed equally as insupportable.
“It’s not as easy as all that,” he said, testing the words. “I find myself—I am ill-suited for most occupations.”
“And why is that?”
He sucked on his teeth, but the worst that could happen was she would look at him with disgust, and surely that was not so bad. Bearable. “I struggle with writing,” he said. “Reading, too. The letters, the words . . . Everything feels muddled in my brain when it comes to putting it on paper. I’d much rather do my thinking with my hands.”
“Your hands,” she repeated, looking at the hands in question.
“Being a gentleman’s son doesn’t involve much of that,” Oliver said, sighing. “If I were the firstborn, it wouldn’t matter so much, I expect, but I’m not.”
“I imagine eldest sons must read and write, too. Estates require maintaining, and there are expectations.” Emily frowned across at him. “Does your brother struggle with this?”
“No, and my sisters are voracious readers and letter writers. They think me indolent and lazy because I rarely reply, but doing so makes me feel . . .” It made him feel stupid. Most of his life, he had been made to feel a fool—and so he had played into it. At least then they thought he was a fool because he chose to be, not because it was born in him.
“You could tell someone,” she suggested.
“I have,” he said, forcing something approaching a smile. “I’ve told you.”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “No one else?”
“I would rather my wider acquaintance is unaware of my shortcomings.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. His childhood tutors’ frustrations all played back across his head. They berated him for not trying, for refusing to learn, all while the words tangled in his head, all sense wrung from the letters.
“Your brother might understand,” she said gently.
“My brother believes that sheer dogged will is enough to achieve anything one puts one’s mind to, and if I fail at that, it is simply because I am not trying hard enough. Failure is weakness, and he does not allow for weakness. Thus, you see, he would have no sympathy for my predicament.” He lay across the bed, angling himself to partially conceal his face and any vulnerability he felt. “When I have my estate, I will hire a steward who will do all my letter-writing for me. I shall dictate, and he shall write and read them for me, and no one need be any the wiser. I have thought it all through.”
