Page 80 of Better Love Next Time
Julian might cry. Something else he’d never done except twice.
Finishing off the liquor, Oliver clutched the glass. “Do you know what I’ll regret about dying?”
“Nothing. I’ve already decided you’re living forever.”
A grumble arose in Oliver’s chest, followed by a hacking cough. Julian offered him a handkerchief, and his brother swiped it from his hand like he had insulted him. But he used it and fixed Julian with a squint. “Seeing you married and gloating over it. Damn, but I’d live another twenty years to watch that.”
“In that case, I intend to oblige you.”
“Good. At least ten children you’ll put on your wife, no doubt.”
Julian laughed at the impossible picture but inside was a sting. He had never cared to beget children. But Kitty had. And by virtue of their marriage, he had consigned her to a motherless future.
“You’ll need some Royal Navy commissions for your yard to support them,” Oliver said.
Julian’s expression flattened. Whether he succeeded or failed, it would be without his brother’s influence. “No.”
A knock sounded at the door, and after Oliver bid entry, a footman announced, “Mr. St. Clair, Lord Tindall wishes to have a word with you in the library.”
The earl paced the Axminster carpet while Julian dropped back in a chair, stretched his legs, and waited for the lecture. At least the room was cooler than Oliver’s.
The pacing continued until Julian went for a bumper of brandy and took another seat, between the twin windows overlooking the north garden. It provided a wider view of the earl’s relentless campaign over carpet.
His father’s hands whipped behind his back. Next, he would halt, turn on his heel, and spear him with the St. Clair glare.
Reaching the end of the carpet, the earl twisted about. Brown eyes with a fierceness not lost to age flashed beneath his impeccable wig. “Damn you, boy! Leaving us for two years without a word.”
A six-and-twenty boy. He’d be a boy as long as his father lived. “I wrote my mother. Did she not share with you my prayers for your good health?”
“I have allowed you your freedom, but no more.”
“Allow is a stretch, isn’t it? What bothers you more? That you cannot control me or that I am in trade?”
His father’s lungs heaved under his stock and ruffled shirt. “If I did not know your mother to be true, I would declare you a by-blow of a pirate.”
“Pirate? I’ve never stolen a pence. Which is more than I can say for you and the Lords. Claiming your privileges, accepting bribes—sorry, favors—for your votes.”
“You irresponsible, worthless spawn of the devil!” His father slammed a fist to his palm.
Now they were getting to the heart of it. Julian was five years old again, exhibiting a precocious aptitude for the calculus and physics. The problem was, his talent was shown by his devilish left hand.
Julian had hurried to his father’s study to show him Archimedes' principle, the discovery that would one day assist Julian in building his dreams. His mother had been there as well as his tutor. Julian had dropped the apple into the bowl of water and proceeded to write out the equation for buoyant force. The earl had narrowed his eyes at his son’s left hand. He had sent Julian away, but behind the study door, Julian had listened while his father terminated his tutor’s employment for his inability to defeat his youngest son’s evil proclivities.
“If we cannot quash his left-handedness, it must be concealed,” the earl had said when the tutor had departed. “The boy does this to embarrass me.”
“My lord husband,” his mother had ventured, “all his tutors remark he is a bright child. Perhaps we might see our son’s handedness as a gift instead of a curse.”
“You shall never accept this smear upon my name. It is disgusting and humiliating. I can hardly be in the boy’s company without wishing to strangle him. Nay, he will likely amount to nothing good, but I must endeavor for the sake of our family. And ships! By God, the demon wishes to build ships!”
Running from the hall out of the house and through the garden, Julian had yanked down a hatchet in a shed and placed his hand upon a wooden bench. His mother had rushed into the shed just as he had found the courage to cut off his disgusting hand. He had cried in her arms. She had told him he was good and he could use whatever hand he wished.
From that day forward, Julian had endeavored to show his father how futile his attempts were at reforming his demon son by using his left hand more so than needed and by being as no good as he could be.
Julian presently sipped his brandy. “You once predicted I would amount to no good.”
“Yes, I did, and here you are.” The earl’s shoulders hunched like a caged beast. “Here you are! While my beloved son?—”
He couldn’t say it and neither could Julian. Nor could Julian make a jest of his father’s blatant partiality for his eldest son. What man wouldn’t prize Oliver St. Clair as a son? An MP since one and twenty, honest with a strict avoidance of favors, a loving father and faithful husband, the loyalest friend.
