Kindred Hearts (28 page)

Tristan sobbed faintly, but jerked away from his touch again.

“And about the unkindness—Tris, when you’re unkind to someone, it doesn’t only matter to them. It hurts you too. And if the other person really
doesn’t
care—the only one you’re hurting is yourself.”

Tristan rolled over and regarded him with sodden eyes. “Charlie—it doesn’t matter. I tried for so long to be what he wanted and I never could be. I gave up. Now I’m what he doesn’t want. And that suits me.”

No, it doesn’t
, Charles thought sadly. He bent to kiss Tristan, his mouth tender, his hand gentle as he stroked the damp forehead.

Tris sobbed again and threw his arms around Charles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wept against Charles’s mouth.

“Shh,” Charles said. He sat on the edge of the bed and drew Tristan up against him, kissing him. “Shh,” he said again.

Tristan pulled on Charles’s waistcoat. “Charlie, I need you. Please. Come to bed. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the day or that my father is downstairs or anything. I need you.”

Charles shucked his coat and waistcoat and Hessians and lay on the bed beside Tris. His lover fumbled with his trouser buttons, but Charles put his hand on Tristan’s fingers to stop him. “Tris. Calm down. You’re overwrought and overtired. I’m not making love to you like this.”

Tristan burst into tears. Charles gathered him up in his arms and held him until the wracking sobs eased. “Now,” he said gently, “I think you need to eat. You barely touched your breakfast.”

“I ate last night,” Tristan said tiredly. He pushed Charles away and lay on his back. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” Charles repeated. “You’ve been in bed for three days and if you ever plan on getting out of it, you need to eat. I know the fever’s made you lose your appetite, but the fever’s been gone for a full day, and you won’t get better without eating.”

Tristan blew out a breath, then said, “I imagine you think I’m acting like a child.”

“No. Just a very tired, ill man.” Charles grinned at him. “We’ll blame your crankiness on that.”

“Well,
I
think I’m acting like a child. Petty revenge on my father, crying like an infant, making demands of you. I’m sick of me, even if you’re not. Bring on the lunch tray, I’ll eat.”

“There’s my reasonable Tris.”

“I suppose I have to be reasonable if I’m to ever get my hands on you,” Tristan pointed out.

Charles grinned. “Means that much to you, does it?”

“You know it does.” Tristan shook his head. “Oh, I don’t mean that that is all there is, Charlie. I’m very fond of you. And I would love being with you.”

“I know.” Charles slid out of the bed, helped Tris sit up, well-propped with pillows, and fetched the lunch tray where Reston had left it before the baron’s arrival. “I’m afraid it’s probably gone cold,” he said as he settled it on Tristan’s knees, “but it’s mostly sandwiches and cheese, so it shouldn’t be too bad. I wouldn’t drink the soup, though.” He handed Tris a sandwich and watched in contentment as Tris began to eat.

Lottie
had never much cared for Tristan’s father, but she felt distinctly sympathetic as she led him back into the library and ordered tea from the footman. She settled the shaken man in Tris’s favorite wing chair and eased her bulk into a chair opposite. “He really is on the road to recovery,” she said reassuringly. “He’s worn out and sometimes talks a little wildly, but he’s
much
better than he was even a day ago. The fever is mostly gone; it sometimes comes back for a while, but it’s not as high as it was in the beginning. And the cravats—tying him up, you know—is just preventative. He hasn’t tried anything foolish in
days
.”

The baron lowered the hand that had been covering his eyes and looked at her, his expression haunted. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him,” he said in a broken voice. “I almost lost him once. I never want to go through anything like that—like this—again. I know he dislikes me but I’d hoped that someday we’d move past that—that he’d understand why I did what I’ve done over the years, and we could reach some accommodation. But to come so close to losing him….”

“You won’t lose him,” Lottie said confidently. “He’s recovering quite well; Dr. MacQuarrie says he’ll be his old self in no time at all. He just needs rest, and we’re seeing to that. And food. He’s too thin.”

“Do they know what caused the fever?”

Lottie shook her head. “He’s been suffering from nervous excitability for a while now, and Dr. MacQuarrie thinks it just led to exhaustive collapse. Charles knows a great deal about medical conditions from his years in the army, and has been treating Tristan with an infusion of different plants and some North American herb. It seems to be helping. Charles is studying to be a physician with Dr. MacQuarrie, and Dr. MacQuarrie concurs with the treatment, since Tris shows no sign of any other malady.”

“I suppose we can be grateful for that,” the baron muttered.

“
Do
you blame Tris for the death of his mother?” Lottie asked pleasantly.

Ware jerked in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you blame Tris for the death of his mother?” she repeated patiently. “He said you did.”

“Of course I don’t!”

“Well, it seems to me you must have given Tris that impression,” Lottie mused, “because he certainly thinks you do. How did she die? Tris never speaks of her—well, I never speak of mine, either, so I suppose he doesn’t feel he can, and I don’t feel I can ask.”

“She died of scarlet fever. There was an epidemic in the village, and several people died of it besides Alice. Emily, Tristan’s baby sister, also died, as did the vicar and his three children. Tristan had been playing with them the day he contracted the illness.”

“So Tristan brought the fever home with him?”

“Yes, but I never taxed him with that!”

“Oh, Tristan is quite capable of coming up with that on his own,” Lottie said serenely. She rose, went to the door, and exchanged a few words with the footman in the hall. A moment later the other footman returned with the tea tray, and she indicated he was to set it on the low table between their two chairs.

Settling back in her chair, she poured out.

“You don’t maintain a butler?” the baron asked curiously.

“Oh, no. It isn’t really necessary and the expense would be foolish, Tris says. We don’t entertain so much that a butler is really essential. Ellen—my cousin and companion; I believe you met at our wedding—is more than capable as a housekeeper, and we have several maids and footmen, so we are comfortably staffed.”

“Tristan? Avoiding expense? That’s a change. He was always rather extravagant.”

“I don’t know about extravagant—he never seemed so to me, but I never paid much attention to his expenses. But if so, after Jamie was born he decided to become more sensible. I’m surprised his man of business has not mentioned it—wasn’t he also yours?”

“He was at one time, but as he grew older, he asked to be replaced by a younger man. My business interests are very extensive, and he did not feel as though he was keeping up with them. So I suggested he take over Tris’s instead. Although I see him occasionally, he generally does not confide in me.”

“Hmm,” Lottie said. She sipped her tea, then added, “When Tris was taken ill, I had the opportunity to both speak to Franklin and to review some documents Tris had left in case of such an occurrence. Well, to be honest, in case of his death, but I stretched the meaning. He has been most careful with his funds, and both Jamie and I are well-protected in the case of his death.”

“That is more sensible than I would have expected from any young man, let alone Tristan,” the baron said. “I’m surprised. Most men his age think of themselves as immortal.”

“Oh,” Lottie said in a soft voice, “Tristan is
very
aware of his mortality.”

“That incident—when he tried to climb out the window—he was delirious, wasn’t he? It wasn’t really intentional?”

Lottie raised her head and met his eyes levelly. “He was dead serious, Lord Ware. And while we have convinced the servants that he was delirious, I can tell you honestly that he was not. In fact, Tristan’s initial collapse came about when Charles discovered that he was intending to destroy himself and charged him with it.”

The baron went white, and the hands that lowered the cup and saucer to the table shook so that the china rang. “My God,” he breathed. “
Tris
?”

“Yes,” she said. “I hope that it was simply depression caused by his nervous exhaustion, but I can tell you that despite appearances, Tristan has been unhappy for a very long time—well before our marriage, in fact. Sadly, it has not been in my power to improve his state. That was why I was so grateful that Charlie was able to stay with us. He has a lot of experience dealing with people and I hoped that he would be a friend to Tris.”

“And has he?”

“Oh, yes,” Charlotte smiled. “Tristan has become rather fond of Charles since he became ill. I do believe that Charles’s friendship will be just the thing for Tris. He is a very lonely man. Tris, I mean. Charles is never lonely.” She turned in her chair as the door opened. “Ah, here he is,” she said delightedly. “Our little man.”

The nurse came in the door, leading Jamie, who was stumping along on his short little legs. “Mama!” he cried and let go Nurse’s hand to toddle over to clutch at Charlotte’s skirts.

“He’s grown so much since last summer,” Baron Ware marveled. “And walking, too! He is the very picture of Tristan at his age—except for the dark eyes.”

Jamie turned and studied his grandfather, still clutching Lottie’s skirt. “Hello,” the baron said warily.

“H’wo,” Jamie replied politely.

“Do you remember your grandfather, Jamie?” Lottie asked.

“No,” Jamie said. He stuck his fist in his mouth and chewed on it a moment, then said, “I ha boo.”

Baron Ware looked up at Lottie, panic-stricken. “He means he has a boo-hoo,” she said. “He fell yesterday and scraped his knee. Show Grandfather your boo-hoo.” To the baron, she said, “He cried when he fell, and so we call it a boo-hoo, don’t we, love? Because he cried ‘boo-hoo’.”

“He should call it a scrape,” the baron said, “shouldn’t he?”

“He should call it whatever he likes,” Lottie said amiably.

Jamie looked at her, then back at the baron. Then he picked up the skirts of his little dress and displayed his knee. There was a tiny scratch on the kneecap.

“I see,” the baron said solemnly. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Jamie said. He dropped his skirts and leaned against Lottie.

“I don’t know what to do with children,” the baron confessed. “I never knew what to do with Tris; his mother handled everything. Then she died and I sent Tris to school, and after that we were constantly at loggerheads. No matter what I did, it never mattered. He seemed to take delight in annoying me or making me angry. When he did so well at Cambridge, I thought perhaps he had changed, but then he came down to Town instead of staying on there as I’d hoped. I thought perhaps he’d take a lecturer’s position and then when he was a little older he could begin taking over some of my duties. But he came down and seemed to have no interests in anything except drinking and whor… drinking and things.” He looked down at Jamie, who was watching him thoughtfully. “I don’t know what happened. I never expected him to hate me. Why does he hate me?”