Page 32 of Romancing the Artist

Mr. Everly came into the room, spectacles atop his head and newspaper already tucked under his arm. He made the usual sighs and grumbling noises of a man in his sixties settling in at a dining table. Once seated, he bestowed a nod and low greeting to his only son. “Edward. Good to see you up early.”

“Father. Are you well today?” They had not spoken of Edward’s marital prospects in several days. The silence on the subject ought to have left Edward with a sense of relief. Instead, every time he and his father occupied the same room, he had the unsettling impression that his father spent that silence in scheming.

Which struck him as odd, since he hadn’t ever thought his father the scheming type. His mother had a knack for orchestrating plans without informing the family of her intentions, but not his father. If Edward was as unsubtle as a boar in the woods, he likened his father to a bull elephant in a jungle. Unconcerned as to how his path might impact the smaller creatures beneath his feet, or what inner turmoil his plans created for his children.

“Has the post arrived?”

Edward took the small stack of folded paper and handed it to his sire. “There isn’t much. Something for Mother, and Hope sent a letter for my younger sisters. There is a letter addressed specifically to you.”

His father, with the missive in his hand already, lowered his spectacles from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. He frowned down at the paper, then sighed as he turned it over and broke the seal.

Edward turned his attention to his breakfast and slathered a thin piece of toast with the apple preserves the whole family had been raised to eat at nearly every meal.

Charity entered the room at the same moment that Mr. Everly said a sharp, vulgar word that his daughter had never heard him utter. Consequently, she froze in place a mere two steps from the table, just as Edward had risen to greet her. Both children stared at their father, whose face had turned a shade of puce that made Edward fear for a long and uncomfortable moment that his father had choked on something.

“The audacity of it,” Mr. Everly muttered, slamming the letter to the table. Only then did he see Charity, her deep blue eyes round in shock. “Oh. Charity. I didn’t see you come in.” He stood and gestured to her usual chair. “Forgive me, my dear. I ought not to have—but the shock, you see. And the very audacity!”

Edward and Charity exchanged a confused glance, then Edward gestured with a tip of his chin. “Does the letter have bad news, Father?”

“Yes.” Mr. Everly pointed Charity to her seat again. “You had better sit, my dear. As the eldest children at home, you must know at once. Then I will go to your mother—if this brings on the headache or megrims, I will blame him, you know.”

“Whom will you blame, Papa?” Charity asked as a footman helped her into her chair. “The person that wrote you the letter?”

“The very same.” Mr. Everly retook his seat, and Edward did the same, but slowly. What was his father muttering about?

“Are my sisters well?” Edward asked. “Hope? Grace? Their families?” What else could put his father in a temper such as the one he had seen, but the tragic news of family illness or pain?

“This isn’t about them, thank God for that.” Mr. Everly closed his eyes and went to rub at them, forgetting his spectacles were in the way until he had knocked them askew. He muttered less offensive words of impatience as he resettled the spectacles on his nose. “You must both bear up. Though it is you, Edward, I must depend upon. This letter is from your cousin Claude.”

That explained the reaction Edward thought only death or family tragedy might bring from his father. Claude Everly, though unlikable, was still family.

“What does he want?” Charity asked, sitting back in her chair even though her eyes blazed with indignation.

“A roof over his head,” their father muttered. “Our roof. He will arrive at the Refuge in two days’ time.”

“Oh, Papa.” Charity groaned and bent forward, imploringly, toward their father. “Can you not prevent him? Last time he came, my friends thought they were in love with him. And he encouraged them. When he left after making half a dozen near-promises, every girl in the neighborhood despised me.”

“There will be greater danger of that this time,” Edward muttered, and when his sister gave him a curious glance he added, “Your friends are all old enough to marry now.”

Charity looked as though she wished to repeat the word her father had used minutes ago. “He wouldn’t dare, surely. There would be fathers or brothers after him if he trifled with any of them.”

“Claude has a secret talent for dancing on the edge of a cliff without ever falling to natural consequences.” Edward had seen it many times, when the two of them had been at the same schools or London parties in their youths. Association with Claude had made Edward unpopular for a time, until he found friends who took him at his own merits and didn’t think sharing a surname akin to sharing vices.

“Be that as it may,” their father said, folding the letter up again. “He is coming. He is my nephew. Your cousin. And I trust you will make sure everything is in order for his visit.” Then Edward’s father turned his eye on him, the weight of his gaze heavy with purpose. “As you know, he is next in line to inherit should anything happen to you, Edward. I hope you will take this as a reminder to consider your future, and to make the necessary plans to secure the legacy of our family.”

Charity gaped at their father as he left the room, letter in hand, without having touched so much as a crumb of breakfast.

Edward couldn’t blame his father for a lack of appetite. He’d lost all interest in his plate and cup the moment his cousin’s name had polluted the air they breathed.

“At this moment, I am most relieved I am not the heir.” Charity shivered, then gave Edward a gentle, crooked smile. “You needn’t wear that morose expression, Edward. Claude has visited before, and we all lived to tell the tale. He is horrid, but he cannot mean to stay long. He thinks the country is boring.”

If Claude took after his late father, it was no wonder Samuel and Matthew Everly hadn’t spoken in the decades prior to Samuel’s death.

“Father will use every one of Claude’s vices to prod me into matrimony.” Edward grasped the table knife at his place setting and motioned with it as though poking some unseen enemy with small, subtle jabs.

A giggle escaped his sister, and Edward lowered the knife with a sigh. “You are a man, Edward. And men in this world have far more advantages than my sex. No one can stop you from pursuing your own happiness. If you have no wish to marry, you will not be forced to the altar. Father’s fears for continuing the family line might be justifiable, but they needn’t consume you.”

Edward blinked at her, then folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “You sound rather mutinous when you put things that way.” And innocent. Though he’d reached his majority, his father held the purse strings. Beyond that, Edward would not act in a way that would drive a divide between him and his family. Despite his disagreements with his father, he had no wish to harm their relationship.