Someday the estate would be his. He’d never expected it. Never embraced it as his. Told himself he’d never wanted it.
Father’s sigh emerged as the thunder ebbed. He sat at his desk, surrounded by piles of dusty tomes. If Nigel Collingwood had been born in a different social class, he would have enjoyed a brilliant career in academia.
“How goes the book, Father?”
“Hmm?” Father lifted his head, adjusted his reading glasses, and found Hugh. “The book. Yes. It goes. And yet...”
Yet he’d lost his oldest son only two months ago. Hugh raised a gentle smile. “It’s such a fascinating topic and of great importance.”
“Yes.” A semblance of light passed through his gaze. “It is.”
“I have an idea.” Hugh swung his feet to the floor. “You’rewriting for a scholarly audience. What if I were to help you write for a broader audience—a translation, if you will—for the common man?”
Sitting by the fireside, Mother clucked her tongue.
“Yes, Mother. A significant portion of the population might read Father’s work—it’s a brilliant topic—if only the language had a simpler touch, a journalistic touch.”
Father shook his graying head. “It isn’t that sort of work.”
Mother topped off her tea. “You’ve spent far too much time with...”
“With those beneath my station?” Hugh tipped up a mischievous smile. “I find them vastly interesting and far more intelligent than we give them credit.”
“But you’re becoming quite coarse. That will have to change now that—” Mother’s voice clamped off, and she gave her head a tiny shake and took a sip of tea.
Now that he was the heir. Hugh wrestled back a wince.
The front door opened and shut, and male voices mingled as the butler greeted their guest and took wet coat and hat and umbrella.
Hugh stood as Elliott Hastings swept into the room.
“Mary, darling.” Uncle Elliott took his sister’s hands and kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Mother’s black dress spoke the truth her words denied.
Uncle Elliott shook Father’s hand, then Hugh’s. “How’s my favorite neph—” His face froze.
Now he was the only nephew. Hugh had once relished that greeting. His fellow square peg, Uncle Elliott had always called him. To Mother’s dismay, he’d done his best to sharpen the corners of Hugh’s peg.
Mother poured tea for her brother, and everyone sat on the sofas flanking the fireplace.
Uncle Elliott smoothed the meager hairs crowning his head.“So, Hugh, what sort of trouble have you been getting into lately?”
“Sadly, none.” Hugh stirred milk into his tea. “I’m rather jealous of Charles Gardner in Dover reporting live on the dogfights over the Channel for the BBC.”
“Smashing good reporting.”
“Indeed.” The Luftwaffe continued its attacks in the Channel, sinking dozens of British ships. “But I’m assigned to London now, so I tell safe little stories telling folks to do their bit.”
“Quite safe. Quite respectable.” Uncle Elliott’s tone withered with sarcasm.
Mother sniffed. “There is nothing respectable about radio reporting.”
A lecture would come, as sure as thunder followed lightning, so Hugh turned to his uncle. “I hear you’re causing trouble with Norman Fletcher.”
“Oh yes.” Smug wrinkles fanned around his eyes. “He quite loathes me. But I am determined to call attention to the plight of the refugees, and he is the man I must persuade.”
“I wish you luck.” Hugh raised his teacup to his uncle. “Even if Fletcher agreed with you, he couldn’t put the story on the air. It isn’t considered relevant.”
