The look I shot him would have had a lesser man cradling his bollocks. Unfortunately, my brother has never respected my authority as head of the household.
“I assume she was homely, then? Since it was such a burden to have her hands all over you,” he asked.
“She was no great beauty, certainly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I do not know. Short, dark hair, big mouth, spilling out of her dress a bit…”
“I’m given to understand that you’re supposed to appreciate that part.” I could only roll my eyes.
“I suppose. She was a disaster though. Completely devoid of propriety and decorum.”
“She sounds delightful. I look forward to the wedding.” His accompanying grin was cheeky and unfazed by yet another withering stare.
“There will be no wedding.”
“Of course not, Brother,” he said in a tone that was all sarcasm.
“I mean it. I am far too young to wed.”
“I’ll agree there. Far too immature to marry.”
“That is not what I said.”
“I know. But I’m also right. Shall I ring for more sandwiches?”
Lord, he was irritating. And the plate was empty but for a few crumbs.
“… yes.”
He rose, wandering over to the pull before returning and settling on the desk, rather than the chair.
“How is Mother? Will she approve of your new bride?”
I ignored his assessment of the mess of a woman who accosted me last night. It was, perhaps, the only thing that would convince Tom to let the subject lie.
“Mother has another megrim. The doctor came by yesterday and prescribed a tonic. It’s had no effect thus far. Perhaps your presence will revive her.”
A pained expression crossed his face. It was one I knew well. Mother in a fit of megrims was to be avoided at all costs. His presence did tend to bolster her though. Even if she relapsed after his departure.
“How long has she been abed with this attack?”
“Nearly a week.”
Of course, she did manage to recover well enough to berate one of the servants because the broth was only lukewarm. And, when her friend Lady Parker called the other morning, she recovered enough to dress and sit for several hours. The fit mysteriously returned shortly after her friend’s departure.
The tonic was likely a particularly expensive peppermint tea. Neither Tom nor I were willing to say as much. Mother’s belief was often enough for efficacy.
The redheaded maid knocked on the doorframe with her elbow. In one hand was a second plate, piled high with more sandwiches. The other hand managed the tea tray.
Tom took the opportunity to relieve her of the sandwich plate burden, grabbing four or five sandwiches in the process before setting the plate on the desk.
He crammed the sandwiches into his mouth, one after another, before pointing at the ceiling. Apparently, he intended to visit Mother.
I waved him off, feeling slightly improved for the sustenance and company. I set the London solicitor’s letter aside in favor of the country estate’s steward. His letters rarely contained anything other than tenant complaints to solve. This one was more of the same.
Four
