“Oh?” Thomas’s brows went up.
It was very rare for their father to communicate with him about anything, for, unlike George, he did not go out of his way to challenge His Lordship’s will, which was the surest way to garner his attention. His life had largely slipped past the marquess, except when he had been required to fulfil some duty or obey some directive, as in the case of Edward’s death. When the marquess had succumbed to infirmity, Thomas had, of course, gone immediately to visit, only to be told, in no uncertain terms, that His Lordship wasn’t dead yet and would call his own priest when the time was right.
George’s mouth pulled tight. “Don’t look like that. You make me feel like a beast.”
But, even so, Thomas could not suppress the hope and pleasure that made his heart expand like a hot air balloon. “Does,” he asked, eagerly, “does he ... does he want to see me? I can go to him. At once, if necessary.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” George’s tone was not unkind. “What would he want to see you for?”
Thomas looked away. Again, his unanchored gaze landed upon Micha, and, for once, the man did not shake him off like a moth. There was something strangely steadying in his attention, warm somehow, like a hand on his shoulder. “I ... have no idea,” he admitted. “I merely thought that he might.”
George shook his head in despair. “How old are you?”
“The same age as you, almost to the minute.”
“Exactly. And when, at any point during that time, has His Lordship given a fuck about you? Why do you still expect something from him?”
“I’m not expecting anything from him. I merely wish he might expect something of me. Someday.” Thomas laughed, self-consciously, far too aware of his own foolishness. But, for once, there was no censure on Micha’s face. “What is his message?”
George reached into an interior pocket and produced a letter, sealed with thick red wax, imprinted with the family crest. Thomas took it from his brother’s outstretched hand and opened it. There were a couple of lines, the script too weak and wavering to be decipherable. Even the marquess’s signature was little more than a fading line, the peaks of theMof Montrose rising weakly from the blur like the turrets of a sinking castle.
“I’m sorry,” said Thomas, finally. “I can’t read this at all. I have no idea what he wants from me.”
“He made me memorise it.” George took a deep breath and then intoned, “‘Mandeville, do not think it has escaped my notice that you have turned my home into an alms-house. Depart at once.’”
And, with that, Thomas lost Micha. Neither of them moved, but it was as though whatever fragile bonds had been spun between them snapped, and Thomas felt dizzy and peculiar, as though he had been cast over empty space and was about to fall.
“I should ... take my leave,” said Micha, somewhat unsteadily. “I’ve already imposed—”
“No. No, you must not.”
“Look, I do have some fucking pride.”
“This has nothing to do with pride.” Thomas sighed. “But the marquess is right. I have taken too much for granted. We shall both take our leave.”
Micha nodded. His eyes were sharp and bleak.
“Come home with me.” The words came tumbling out of Thomas in a messy pile.
“What?” barked George.
“Wh-what?” asked Micha.
Thomas glanced from Micha to George and back to Micha again, bouncing between looks of utter incomprehension. “Well,” he blundered on, “if there is, as you say, nothing and no one to keep you in London, why not?”
Micha stirred restlessly in the chair, his hands clasping and unclasping. “What ... well ... I mean ... how ... where is home, I mean your home, anyway?”
“I have a small parish in Oxfordshire. The village is called Nettlefield.”
Micha spluttered out a laugh. “Nettlefield? Well, that sounds lovely.”
“The name does not do it sufficient credit.”
“I’d hope not. Nettlefield, in the county of Cesspit.”
“Cesspitshire,” said Thomas, smiling.
There was a moment of silence that hung in the room as heavy and inevitable as a raindrop about to fall.
