“You talked me out of my corset earlier this week,” Eleanor said, a playful grin toying across her pretty flushed lips. “And now you are trying to talk me back into it?”
The talk of her corset made his mind stop functioning. In fact, it stopped being a humorous situation entirely to him, only because he could think of nothing other than how she wasn’t wearing a corset now.
“This is freedom, Tristan,” Prudence said, catching his attention. He turned toward her, focusing very hard. “Why would I want to give it up?”
“Because you are hungry and exhausted?” Tristan guessed.
“Dear Lord!” Bad News exploded. “He gets it! It turns out, we are people. Just like him. We get tired and hungry and would like a long relaxing bath to warm up in, and some delicious food to put the meat back on our bones.”
Fortunately, Tristan’s mother came over at this point, checking on why the hauling of the bags had stalled out. “Are they teasing you?” she asked, as if he couldn’t handle his own against a pack of feral girls. Which, it seemed, he couldn’t.
“Yes, but only because I’m so unbearably handsome,” he said, giving his best charming grin to Eleanor, who at least blushed. That was a point in his favor. Bad News scoffed again.
“It’s because you’re unbearably stupid,” Bad News corrected.
“Oh, Justine, language,” his mother admonished.
“Fine. Because Tristan is so unbearably backward in his thinking.”
That actually landed a mark on him. He was quite forward in his thinking, thank you very much. He had no trouble letting Ophelia lead the campaign, let her make the speeches and the decisions. He was the infantryman. There to help carry bags, muscle through if needed. It wasn’t particularly fashionable to tell other men that he was following his baby sister’s instructions for his next big adventure. He’d gotten more than his fair share of teasing about it. “My thinking is very progressive, I would like you to notice.”
Bad News rolled her eyes again. “Please.”
He found himself wanting to make his mother speak up for him, until he realized just how ridiculous that was. “If you have no need of me, then, whether it be my outrageously fashionable looks, my incredibly progressive mental capacity, or even my unarguably masculine brute strength, I will go find some other occupation.” Tristan turned on his heel to go seek out his father.
“Au revoir!” Bad News called.
There was a garbled hushing of her from Eleanor. Words he couldn’t make out, but it was gratifying to knowsomeonemight be on his side. At least a little bit. And really, he was quite glad it was Eleanor, if it were to be anyone.
His father was making lists of provisions and estimated costs by the fire. Tristan sat down on the nearest tree stump. His father hadn’t changed much over the years. There was perhaps a bit more gray, yes, which appeared after his mother’s accident, almost overnight. But he was trim and stoic, eager to help,and kept his own counsel. A man of few words, whom Tristan admired inordinately. He was a great man, and even more so, a great father. He looked at each of his children as individuals, with different talents and different roles. It was a gift to be seen not just as the spare, as he so often was called, but as his own person, with his own wants and needs.
“Equipment all in order?” he asked Tristan absently, not bothering to look up from his ledger. Trust his father to bring a writing desk into the woods.
“Seems to be,” Tristan said. “Did you know about Herringbone’s party?”
“Mmm?” His father looked up finally. “I do wish you wouldn’t call him that.”
“Hard not to anymore, honestly.” Tristan looked out at the land. He preferred being out here than in London. He couldn’t quite figure out what he liked most, or really, even why. Because there was so much of town that he did like—the wine, the women, the clubs, the gambling. But those were the activities he engaged in while he avoided thinking about the future. What he would do with his life. Military service? The church was out of the question. A trade?
“I had an inkling your brother would get us all over to Cloverbee. He’s desperate to be included.”
Tristan frowned. “He is?”
His father looked up at him, blinking rapidly, as if he had dirt in his eye. “Of course. He feels that as my heir, he should not participate in these kinds of daring feats. But it does not mean he doesn’t want to.”
Tristan stared off to where Herringbone had made his exit on his horse, as if he might still see the echo of his brother standing there, hat in hand.
“Your brother feels his duty quite acutely. He hasn’t the freedom you do.”
“Freedom?” Tristan almost growled. His freedom was insecurity and aimlessness. If only his plight was that he would inherit money and lands and a purpose.
“Yes, freedom. The heir must always be concerned about what is best for his estate, his lineage, his greater family. As a second son, you have far more freedom in whom you marry, how you spend your time, what you will do with your life. Especially now that we have modern medicine. It’s unlikely that you’ll have to worry that you’ll inherit. Arthur will marry a fine lady, and they will have children. You needn’t worry. Arthur will do his bit.”
Spoken like an heir, Tristan thought. He should get up and find somewhere else to be before his temper rose to the surface. He was generally good natured, but when his temper rose, he almost went blind with it. Years of practice and a few hard pummelings from the boys at school had taught him to keep it in check at all times. Few things could rattle it free, but his father talking about the difficulties of being the heir—of beingneeded—made control precarious.
He stood. “I think I’ll go for another run.”
“Another?” His father squinted at the sky, gauging the progress of the afternoon. “The girls still practicing with the pulley?”
