“Twelve,” I said, a bit disappointed that he did not know my exact age, as I knew his.
“Twelve, yes, and now here we are! You’re a man now; no wonder you look so different!” He turned then, suddenly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I turned as well toward the door, fearing who it would be even before I saw him. “Rowland,” I said, trying not to register disappointment in my voice.
Rowland nodded wordlessly. He must have known I was to arrive. I wished at the moment that I had been similarly warned.
“And if two brothers were more completely different, I could not imagine it,” Carrot said.
There was a long silence, made more uncomfortable by the fact that Carrot still had one arm around my shoulders. Then I said, lamely, “I take after our father; he, our mother.”
Carrot’s hand slipped away from me as his mind moved on. “And what’s become of the women?” he asked Rowland.
“Oh, you know,” Rowland said, gesturing vaguely.
There are women guests as well?I wondered. And, suddenly, it occurred to me:Did Carrot have a wife?“You have a houseful,” I said.
“When has he not?” Rowland said, laughing.
“Not so many, actually,” Carrot said, “but it needn’t bother the two of us. We have much to talk about, have we not?” His hand was on my arm and he guided me out of the dining room, across the reception hall, and into a drawing room that was quite different from the rest of the house: swathed in deep reds and dark blues—a man’s room. He led me to a vast maroon leather chair and saw me settled in and then asked, “What will you have?”
I did not know exactly what I should say, so I said the safest: “Whatever you are having is fine.” I watched as he stepped to a side table and decanted an amber liquid into two glasses, and cocked his head at Rowland. At Rowland’s slight nod, he poured a third. I gazed at the two of them—good friends, no doubt of it—and a flood of resentment swept over me. I had desperately wanted to find my same old Carrot, my closest friend, but now it seemed Rowland had taken my place.
Carrot brought me a glass and, handing it to me, said, “A toast! To the three of us, united at last. Like brothers should be.”
I rose to the toast and lifted my glass to theirs, looking from Carrot to Rowland, and back to Carrot.Brothers,I thought.
Then, surprising me, Carrot turned to Rowland. “If you don’t mind, I would like a word or two with your brother.”
“Of course,” Rowland said, not turning red as I would have done if the circumstances had been reversed. He left us promptly, closing the door behind him.
“Jam!” Carrot said, once we were alone, laying his hand on my shoulder and searching my eyes. I smiled at him but felt somewhat at a loss, still. Carrot seemed to understand. “You are wondering what to call me, I imagine,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I responded, relieved that he had brought it up, as I had not had the slightest idea of how to approach the subject. He seemed so much exactly the same and at the same time so different that I hardly knew where I was to be in relation to him.
“Most people call me ‘my lord.’ Others call me ‘Lord Fitzcharles.’ My dearest friends call me ‘Fitzcharles,’ or ‘Thomas.’ I’m sure all of those seem strange to you, but there you are. Choose from them as you like, but, for your sake as well as mine, please do not call me ‘Carrot’ in company. I left that far behind at Black Hill. But, with the two of us…well, that’s different.”
“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
He stood staring at me a moment, until I added, “My lord.”
“Fitzcharles, perhaps,” he prompted with a grin.
“Fitzcharles,” I said. “Thank you for clarifying.”
“Jam,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind—or be hopelessly confused—if I still call you that: you have always seemed like the little brother I wished I’d had.”
“I’m flattered,” I responded, and in a way I was, though I would vastly have preferred to be called “Edward.” “Fitzcharles,” I added then, not yet used to the name. We left the room together, his hand on my back, and as we walked across the entrance hall I saw from the corner of my eye Rowland standing in the gallery at the top of the stairs, watching.
I cannot remember how I managed to get through that evening, for it was not at all as I had assumed, beginning of course with Rowland, whose appearance there was a sore disappointment to me. As well, I was uncomfortable with Carrot, since the name “Fitzcharles” meant nothing to me, and “Thomas” even less, and I was piqued at finding myself still labeled with the childish “Jam.”
When we came down for dinner, I was mortified that the tailor in Maysbeck had gotten it all wrong: the fashion for men that season was not the pantaloons he had urged on me, but knee breeches, which both the tailor and I had thought had gone all out of style, and their shoes were the slim pumps I had seen in the cobbler’s window and not the sturdy shoes I wore. I felt entirely the country bumpkin.
But the women! They came down eventually, as the sun was lowering in the west, turning the reds and blues of the room to the shades of jewels. There were two of them, and like jewels themselves, but something light and bright, perhaps diamonds or emeralds. They were Miss Kent and Miss Gilpatrick, and they were cousins. Clothed in shimmering gowns, they floated around the room like captive butterflies, flirting with each of us in turn, laughing, showing their dimples.
Carrot displayed an ease that was fitting, while Rowland stood off, as an observer, and even when the women approached him, he seemed to maintain a distance from them, as if to demonstrate that he could not so easily be brought into the circle of their enchantment. Nevertheless, it was clear he held an attraction for them: fair of hair and complexion, with azure eyes and an aquiline nose, he was tall and slim and lithe; he surely looked the perfect gentleman, the perfect dancing partner. I could imagine that people would want to trust my brother, take him into their confidence, hope to be his favorite. I marveled that this was how he appeared to others, knowing what was in his heart. Still, I was eager to learn from watching him, if I could—for it was clear to me he had experience with women.
To me as well, the young ladies returned again and again, perhaps because it was clear I was delighted with them—as who would not be? They were lovely creatures, with light, pure voices and lively eyes that danced with delight when one said something especially clever. And I was, I admit, dying to appear clever.
