“Because it’s the fashionable thing to do. And because His Lordship doesn’t like it.”
Once again at a loss for anything more useful to say or do, Thomas handed his brother a cup of coffee, the rich bitter smell of it mingling with the musty room. “Here, drink this. It will steady you.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “And I hope you will not behave badly towards Mrs. Clark.”
There was no reply. Just an apathetic glance, as mistrustful as a wounded animal’s.
“She is under our protection,” Thomas persisted. “She is not for your ... entertainment. I know you’re angry and frustrated and, for that matter, intoxicated, but you’ve never been cruel.”
“And you’ve always been a prig.”
Thomas nodded. “I know.” He gave a faint, apologetic smile. “I don’t mean to be.”
Disregarding this small attempt at conciliation, George climbed to his feet and strode to the window. He pulled the heavy velvet drapes aside, stirring up a column of dust motes, and stared down into the pristine green haze of the Grosvenor Square garden. “I hate this house.”
“You could probably improve it,” suggested Thomas. “If you tried.”
“Edward was supposed to do that. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
Edward had said he would fill the rooms with light and the halls with laughter. Thomas caught his breath against a sudden twist of pain.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” muttered George. “A hunting accident. He didn’t even like hunting. Damn fool way to die.”
“Yes.” It was all Thomas dared to say.
George half-turned. The sunlight gleamed upon his tangled hair. “Tell me again. How did it happen?”
Thomas swallowed the taste of sickness as he repeated the lies his father had taught him. “His gun discharged. It was an accident. A stupid, tragic accident.”
His brother gave a weak smile. “Well, at least you were there, eh? Got him winging his way to heaven ahead of the crowd.”
“Yes,” said Thomas, in barely more than a whisper.
There was a long silence. Thomas poured himself some coffee in order to have something to do with his hands, which, unaccountably, he could not hold still.
“If the dead go to a better life,” asked George, at last, “why do we mourn them?”
“We mourn ourselves. Our own loss.”
“Bit selfish, don’t you think? Should we not be celebrating everlasting happiness instead?”
Thomas could feel the gatherings of what would surely turn into a stormy headache. “Is there a point to this?”
“I just think if we truly believed everything we say about death, then grief would be different. I don’t think we’d be so afraid. I don’t think it would feel so final.”
“I do not wish to talk about this,” said Thomas in a stifled voice.
“Why not? Isn’t it your area of expertise?”
“You know it isn’t.”
“I want an answer, Thomas. Don’t forget, I’ve seen a lot of fucking death.”
“I don’thavean answer,” cried Thomas, pushed beyond endurance. “Not to this. Not to any of it.”
“At least you got to see him. I just waved him off on his honeymoon, and the next thing I heard he was dead.” George said nothing for a moment, still gazing out of the window, at the world beyond. Then his shoulders slumped. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wanted to be an uncle. I had every intention of being a doting one.”
Thomas sank into a chair, fingertips idly massaging the bridge of his nose. “What do you want from me, George? I’ve already told you, I can’t help.” He sounded so very weary, even to himself. “I wish I could. But the mysteries of the universe are as mysterious to me as they are to everyone else. We simply have to trust in ... in a plan, the workings of which are too subtle, and too vast, for us to discern them.”
