Page 25 of These Violet Delights
He shuddered at the memory of Frank’s gasping howl of pain. Perhaps he hadn’t gained the respect of his peers after that, but he did gain their firmly shut mouths.
The tables around him were half-full. The families there chatted merrily. Talking and talking. He stared down at his empty plate, the conversations winding into one another until they were just a blur of sound threading through the room. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut it out, knowing the heat spreading through his chest would worsen, grow thorns, and creep up his neck until it choked him…Was it a curse or a skill that he could somehow feel shatteringly alone in a mostly occupied space…
The churning, that’s how I would describe it, too. I’ve always had it, but it became so much worse when Father died.
And there, he had not felt alone in that conversation. He had learned early not to identify the strangeness of his mind to others. His father had lost a cousin to what he described as “malingering thoughts.” And in these recollections of “madness,” Alasdair recognized himself. The rumination. The indecision. The desire to retreat from the world entirely when overwhelmed. Cousin Muriel, as she was called, had refused tomarry, resorted to frequent outbursts, and disappeared for days on end, until at last the family decided she was incurable and sent her to Bethlem at Moorfields. Alasdair stopped hearing about Cousin Muriel after that, and though her story faded from their lives, the moral of it never did.
Loud laughter trickled down from upstairs. Freddie. He stood abruptly and fixed his coat, then crossed resolutely to the stairs. The big, burly proprietor stumbled out from behind his counter. Lowering his brow, he grunted out, “Keep it quiet, eh, Mr. Kerr? Civil?”
“Believe me, sir, I have no intention of causing a scene.”
No, this was about avoiding just such an outcome, although he feared the damage had already been done. Freddie didn’t think, didn’t dwell; he acted. Alasdair turned and charged up the stairs, taking them three at a time. What must it be like, he wondered, to not be a dog chained to a master of worries? To simply be, simply do, unmoored by doubts…
He tracked the sound of Freddie’s muted voice through the walls to a door at the end of the upstairs hall. There was a damp, musty scent hanging in the air that made his eyes water and his throat protest. His fist landed three times on the door, hard, and the giggling within ceased at once.
“Do you think—” began a high, pretty voice.
“Put something on, damnit. I’ll go and have a look.”
Freddie.
A moment later he heard footsteps approaching and a shoulder lightly bang against the other side. “Is that the wine we wanted, boy?”
Alasdair smiled and pressed his head close to the wood. “Something stronger.”
He could all but feel Freddie withering behind the door.
“Sod it, Alasdair, what do you want?”
“Your fun is at an end, I’m afraid. Time to come home.”
“According to who? You? Mother?”
“According to nothing but good, common sense. By God, Freddie, is there not an ounce of decorum left in your body? Open this door, now, or I will splinter it myself.”
“Yes, yes, all right!” Freddie then murmured something to his companion and slowly tugged the door open, standing before Alasdair with the wide, glistening eyes of a child standing beside the vase they had shattered. A woman came flying past him immediately, head bowed, the back of her neck red with embarrassment. Alasdair paid her no attention; according to the proprietor, she was simply one among a legion of willing admirers.
Alasdair shoved himself into the room before Freddie could change his mind. His brother’s shirt was loose and open, his eyes bloodshot, his skin sallow from drink and lack of sleep. Bounding away to the table by the hearth, he began doing up the five buttons on his shirt and straightening out the cuffs. A sour perfume of sweat, old wine, and body musk lingered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Freddie said, hunting down his scattered garments. “It’s a perfectly natural response to the disappointment I’ve suffered. Did Mother send you?”
“I sent myself. Everyone knows you’re here.”
Freddie at least had the good grace to wince at that. He went to a basin of water standing on a table by the window and splashed his face. “Do you suppose Emilia knows, too?”
“It would be better if she did; her heart might mend the faster. I understand that she—” He cut himself off quickly, realizing sympathy would only complicate matters.
“It’s natural,” Freddie repeated himself, pushing his wet hands through his hair before sniffing and striding to the door.“Who are you to judge? You…you who would choose a cold, flat painting over a flesh-and-blood woman.”
Alasdair pushed him lightly through the open door, grunting. “I’ve taken my share of lovers. That you don’t know about it speaks to my discretion, not my inexperience. Any man who crows about his exploits is pathetic, lying, or both, a lesson you could well learn after this…display.”
They made it as far as the top of the stairs before Freddie stiffened and refused to go farther.
“My bill…”
“I’ve seen to it.”
His brother fell quiet then and remained so until they had left the establishment, enduring so many inquiring gazes from the other patrons that Alasdair could only hope it scarred Freddie for life. He couldn’t trust that Freddie would find his way home without another indulgent detour and thus delivered him to Sampson with the stoicism of a jailor. They were just outside the front doors of the estate when Freddie perked up and cast his gaze across the lawn, inhaling deeply.
