Kindred Hearts (38 page)

“I came very close to my own mortality,” Tristan said, and he drained his glass, rising to refill it. He was still at the sideboard when his father’s voice came again.

“You mean your intent to commit suicide.”

The glass clinked against the side of the decanter. Tristan steadied it, then turned back to his guest. “Charlotte?”

“Yes. When I came to see you. When you were ill.” Ware raised his eyes to his son’s. “It was then I knew that I had failed you and had to see if there was any way to make recompense. Charlotte counseled me to wait a few weeks, then try again.” He sipped his brandy, his hand shaking. “I can’t believe that you were serious. Oh, I don’t doubt you were, but Tristan….”

“I had gone to fetch my pistols,” Tristan said, his voice flat. “I had written a draft of a letter to Charlotte and left it on my desk. I was going to go to my club and do it there. While I was gone, Charles came in and read the letter. We fought. He convinced me to wait. And as it turned out, I was merely suffering from nervous exhaustion, so once I’d recovered from that, my spirits improved and I no longer felt the need to commit self-murder.”

“I don’t understand why you felt that need to begin with.”

Tristan turned the glass in his hand, studying the play of firelight on the amber liquid. “I had no wish to be an embarrassment to my son,” he said finally. “He didn’t deserve a father who was a useless, drunken fool, a waste of time and energy, a worthless, feckless idiot.”

“You are none of those things!”

Tristan only looked at him. His father’s face was indignant, but as Tristan stared, a slow flush built up in his cheeks and he sagged, looking old. “I said those things?” he whispered.

“At one time or another,” Tristan said.

“I
beg
your pardon,” Ware said, scarlet.

“Oh, it’s true enough,” Tristan said, his voice careless, “it’s just not comfortable to
hear
, you understand. More brandy?”

“Just bring the whole decanter,” Ware said.

Tristan obeyed, pouring his father another glass and settling back in his own chair.

“It isn’t true, you know,” Ware said. “The useless, worthless stuff. It isn’t true. I don’t even know why I said it.”

“Because it was what you believed,” Tristan replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter! Because of my careless words, my son chose to destroy himself rather than go on, believing what I said in a fit of pique? God!” Ware flung his head back against the padded back of the wing chair. “I cannot believe I was so stupid! I told her, over and over again, I said, ‘Alice, I don’t know the first thing about children,’ and she always said, ‘It doesn’t matter; I’ll take care of that part.’ But she didn’t. She
left
me, and I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know the first thing about being a father! I didn’t know my own father; he spent all his time with Albert, teaching him about the estate, and I was happy enough with my mathematics, so I didn’t miss him. But then there I was, alone with you, and I didn’t know what to do! Alice was supposed to know. But she
left
me.” His eyes when they met Tristan’s were stark and haunted and grief-stricken. “I didn’t know what to do. And so I did it all wrong.”

He took a drink. “And so here we are. All wrong. I wanted the best for you. I wanted you to
be
the best. You were so bright—brilliant. Redding, the vicar you had lessons with, said you were the most intelligent boy he’d ever tutored; you learned fast and you remembered things, and that you had an amazingly mathematical mind. I was so proud of you. You did so well in school, and I thought that I wouldn’t make the same mistake and take you out of Cambridge until you were ready, that you could stay on and find a place there, and I could train someone else to manage the estate, and you could stay and be a Cambridge Fellow, and be happy there, the way I couldn’t. But you didn’t stay there. Why didn’t you stay there?”

“I wasn’t good enough!”

“You had
first-class honors
!” Ware roared. “You ranked
twelfth
in the Mathematical Tripos! You could have had a research scholarship!”

“I was
twelfth
!” Tristan roared back. “Not good enough!”

Ware fell back in his chair. “My
God
,” he gasped, “what the devil do you mean ‘not good enough’? What kind of expectations did you think I had?”

“Perfection,” Tristan said flatly.

His father only stared at him. Finally he said, “Is that what you thought? That I required you to be perfect?”

“That is certainly the impression you gave,” Tristan said. He sighed and leaned his head back against the chair, echoing his father’s earlier move. Odd how they had some of the same mannerisms, he thought absently, when they spent so little time together. “As I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“I never wanted you to be perfect,” Ware said. “I only wanted the best for you. I wanted you to be
happy
.”

Closing his eyes, Tristan said, “Then it looks like we both failed.”

The fire in the hearth crackled loudly, the pop of resin sounding like gunshots in the silence. Finally Ware said, “What would make you happy, Tristan?”

Tristan thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know what
would
make me happy, but there are a few things that
do
make me happy. Jamie, for one thing. It was part of the reason why I… why I had made the decision I had. Jamie is so beautiful, so perfect, that I couldn’t bear to see the love he has for me turn into disdain. As it will. But I think I can accept that, now that—” He stopped, too close to self-betrayal.

“Now that what?”

Oh, hell. “Now that I’ve found someone who loves me the way I am,” Tristan said. “Someone who doesn’t care how flawed I am. Someone I can love with a full heart.”

“Oh.” Ware studied his glass, then looked up at Tristan. “Does Charlotte know? About this… other person?”

Tristan barked a short laugh. “I should say so, considering it was she who introduced us.”

“Well. That’s… interesting. Have you, um, settled her locally?”

Again the long period of silence. Tristan considered his options carefully, but he was tired. “No. He’s currently in Brussels.”

Ware blinked, then said slowly, “I could have sworn you just said….”

“‘He’.” Tristan was unequivocal. “Yes. You heard correctly. So you see, Papa, all your predictions came true. I am not only worthless and feckless and an idiot, I’m a sodomite as well. I’m in love with a man.” He watched as the baron rose, his glass in his trembling hand. Absently, as though watching a play, he wondered if his father would strike him, or merely throw the brandy in his face. He hoped he would strike him; it would be a shame to waste such expensive liquor.

“This is my fault,” Ware rasped.

It was Tristan’s turn to blink. This wasn’t what he expected. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s my fault. I failed as your father, drove you to excesses with whores, and drinking, and now you’re looking for something worse, something more degrading, something…. Oh, God.” Ware put his hand to his forehead and swayed.

Tristan shot to his feet, grabbing his elbow. “Please, sir! Sit down!”

Ware obeyed, slumping back into his chair. “Oh, God forgive me,” he moaned.

Tristan crouched before him, taking the glass from him and setting it on the side table, then chafing his hands gently. They were ice cold. “This is not your fault, sir, trust me on that,” he said earnestly. “Forgive me, but please do not blame yourself!”

“Who shall I blame, then? You? No, I cannot see it. You’re confused, Tris, you’re mistaking kindness for something more, and I’m sure the man cannot be reciprocating… Brussels? It cannot be Major Mountjoy? But he is a soldier—a
staff officer
! He cannot be what you describe.” He shook his head firmly. “You are mistaken. You admire him, that’s understandable, he’s an admirable man, and you need to look up to someone who is admirable and reliable and all the things I am not. This is not love, Tristan. It is liking, and respect, and fondness. These things are all acceptable. I am sure you have not had any acquaintance before that engendered these feelings, and so you have mistaken them.” He gave Tristan a quavery smile, and Tristan was shocked to realize that his father had somehow, during the last dozen years, grown old.

“No, sir, I am sure you are right,” he said gently, regretting his rash decision to admit to his feelings for Charles. His father looked not angry, but ill. “I am just being foolish.”

The baron looked down at their entwined hands. “Tristan,” he said brokenly, “my beloved boy,
can
you forgive me?”

“I think we need to forgive each other,” Tristan said. “That is what Lottie would say. And you know I always listen to what she says, for she is eminently sensible.”

The baron lowered his head to rest his brow on their hands. Tristan, after a moment, leaned forward to rest his own on his father’s grizzled head. “We will try,” he said to Ware. “We can but try.”

“
Did
you manage not to kill each other?” Charlotte asked from the doorway to the hall.

Tristan drew his cravat off before answering. “No thanks to you, Miss Mischief,” he said dryly. “We did manage to reach a sort of accommodation, and have agreed to attempt to forgive each other. I invited him to dinner Sunday.” He started to wriggle out of his coat; Charlotte came into the bedroom to tug on his sleeves. Laying it on the chair for Reston to deal with in the morning, Tristan went on, “He seems genuinely apologetic for his mishandling of me and equally desirous of improved relations. It seems to have come as a shock to him that he actually said all the things he has to me over the years. I suppose they were uttered without thought, but assumed they reflected his true feelings, not the frustration they apparently did. I don’t know, Lottie.” He sat down on the bed and regarded his wife with eyes that ached. “I told him about my feelings for Charles.”

Lottie sat down on his coat with a thump. “You did what?” she asked faintly.

“I told him I was in love with Charles. He informed me that I was mistaken; that it was merely respect and affection, and that it was his fault for not providing me with someone I could relate to appropriately, so that I misunderstood my feelings for another man.” He shook his head. “I think Charles has got to him somehow.”

“What did you do?”

“Told him he was right, of course. What else could I do? Go into detail about our amorous activities?”

Charlotte shuddered. “Good heavens, no. I suppose it is for the best if he thinks it platonic. I shall remember to let Ellen know that we will continue to ignore the situation.”

“How can a woman so wise be such an execrable speller?” Tristan teased.

“Wisdom and spelling do not necessarily go hand in hand,” Charlotte said, snorting in amusement. “Well, it will be more comfortable this summer if he feels accepted at our home in the country; Wareham is quite close, and it will be pleasant to have a man near at hand while you are in Brussels with Charles. The baron does seem to like Ellen; perhaps I shall engineer a romance between the two of them. She is not yet forty and still capable of carrying a child—would you mind a younger brother or sister?”