Page 44 of The Lord who Captured Her Innocent Heart
“I’m only teasing, Mother,” Peter tried, although he knew she could see entirely through him, as though he was transparent. “You know I love dear Frederick.”
His mother snapped her book closed without bothering to note the page. This was simply her way: she always remembered everything, and would surely have the paragraph line and page number in her head somewhere, so that she could pick back up where she left off the moment he disappeared.
“I dare say Frederick must be a wretched case this morning,” she said. “He was always such a nervous young man, wasn’t he? Much more apt to live in the pages of books than exist with the other children. The fact that he’s marrying before you is, quite frankly, beyond me.”
“Mother. I dare say I don’t need this lecture today, of all days,” Peter said, his voice cutting.
But placing any sort of boundary between them was a difficult thing, as his mother upheld eternal dominance in any situation. Peter respected her a great deal.
“It’s just, darling, I can’t bear to think of you whiling away your life as your father’s right-hand man,” his mother continued.
“Whiling away?” Peter scoffed. “It’s Father who thinks this is a marvellous idea. He says I’ll finally become the sort of son he’s always dreamed of, or something to that effect.”
“Your father is confused. You should be here, doing what Frederick has already done. Securing a life. Securing a wife. Securing a family.”
Peter felt his father’s weight on one side of his mind, while his mother secured herself on the other. It was impossible to gauge what to say. He leaned against the doorway, feeling apt to scream.
“Mother, can I ask you a question?”
The words that flowed from his mouth surprised even him. His mother lent him a tiny shrug. This was highly unusual for Peter, and she knew it.
“Mother, I was curious when you knew, for sure, in your very heart and soul, that you loved Father? That you wished to spend the rest of your life with him?”
The question was far more unlikely than his mother had assumed it would be. This was clear after a split-second, when all the colour drained from her cheeks. She shot to her feet, drawing her hands across her skirts to smooth them.
“Peter,” she stammered. “This isn’t the sort of thing you ask your mother.”
“I understand that. But please. Bear with me,” Peter continued, blindly pushing forward.
This was clearly the incorrect tactic. His mother laced her fingers together, tightening them so much that they lost all their colour. She was a little, brittle woman, perhaps void of any love at all. This hit Peter like a brick, forcing his heart to creak in his chest.
Perhaps he’d never known what love was because it had never been truly represented in his own life. Was that possible?
“Peter, Frederick is awaiting you at the Braxton estate,” she said. The words sounded oddly violent. “I can’t dally with this conversation a moment longer. You know what you’re meant to do as a Holloway: that you’re meant to uphold the family line, find a proper wife to settle with. That’s all I’ll say on the matter. I trust that you’ve heard me.”
Peter sensed he had her trapped. He was a foreboding force in the doorway, keeping her from ducking into the foyer and back up the steps, like a rodent hiding from people in the city streets. But he also sensed the fear lurking behind her eyes, the sense that this sort of conversation drudged up wretched things within her. He took a slight step back, and then another, before bounding towards the door without another word. Just before he escaped through the crack, he thought he heard a light weeping, streaming from the sitting room. But he knew peeking in on his mother to find her in such a state would only humiliate her more.
Peter took his horse to the Braxton estate. Each time the hooves clapped upon the field, his brain felt as though it was clunking about his head. Still, the sun streamed higher in the sky, casting sweat down his spine. He imagined himself already in a soggy state, even as the Braxton estate appeared on the horizon line. He bolted for it, feeling guided by an invisible strength. He couldn’t comprehend where it had come from. Perhaps it was the sincere notion that no one — not his mother, nor his father, nor Frederick or Tatiana — had any clue what they were doing, or who they were meant to love. He felt sure Ella didn’t know, either.
Just as he’d suspected, Frederick stood in his bedroom — shoeless, sockless, wearing only a pair of underthings, his chest barren. His face was deathly pale, almost akin to Peter’s mother’s when he’d asked her his “big question.”
“Peter, thank God you’re here,” Frederick uttered. He smacked his hand across his belly, looking a bit like a child, fearful and silly. “I think with all the partying, my belly has expanded long past where it’s meant to. In fact, my dear boy, I do believe I might be a bit fat.”
The words were ridiculous, wild, outlandish. Frederick had always been a thin, strapping young man, due, perhaps, to all his hours spent at various libraries and standing at bookshelves, the thought of food far, far from his mind. Although, perhaps it was true that Frederick had allowed a little mound to rub up on his belly, it wasn’t noticeable from most angles. In fact, the bit of fat along Frederick’s cheeks had somehow made him look older, wiser: a man more in-line with the age of marriage.
“Stop looking at it!” Frederick said, stretching his fingers, spider-like, over his stomach.
“Well, you have it out, don’t you?” Peter asked, chuckling a bit. “I can’t help but look, now that we’re speaking about only it. It. Shouldn’t we name it, you think? This brand new being in the world?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Frederick stammered. He bounded to his bed and sat at the edge, hanging his head.
“You’re the one being ridiculous, Fred,” Peter said, grateful to have something so idiotic to take up his time. “You look absolutely majestic. There really aren’t words to describe your physique…”
“You’re making it worse.” Frederick sighed.
“Seriously, Fred. It doesn’t look large at all. In fact, have you tried on your outfit for the day? I imagine you’ll fit into it just as nicely as you did before. Perhaps better,” Peter offered.
This brightened Frederick a bit. Perhaps he’d simply been bounding about his room, hunting for any sort of compliment. Even the most bookish of all men required a compliment, to affirm their use in the world.
