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Authors: Linda Francis Lee
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The pounding came again, making him flinch at the noise. Someone was there. He could just make out the heated exchange that was taking place beyond the study walls.
“Damn it, Quincy. Step away from that door.”
“But sir! Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“First you tell me he isn’t here, and now you tell me he is unavailable. What is going on here?”
The thick velvet draperies were pulled nearly closed, only a sliver of the world outside showing through. Matthew had no idea how much time had passed since he staggered home and holed up in the study. And based on the voices just beyond the door, he thought to hole up a little longer.
But he knew who was there, and knew as well that his older brother would not be turned away. Too bad it wasn’t his younger brother who had arrived. No doubt Lucas would be more understanding of the disarray Matthew found around him. As the black sheep of the family, Lucas had been in more than his share of predicaments over the years.
Matthew fumbled with a damnably tiny knob on the lamp next to the divan, then stood and straightened his rumpled coat and tie as best he could. With no help for it, he unlocked and opened the door. As soon as he appeared, silence descended in the foyer.
“Good afternoon, Grayson,” he said pleasantly, as if nothing were amiss.
But no one was convinced, least of all his brother.
Matthew bit back a curse when he saw shock crease his brother’s face. Grayson had spent a lifetime acting more as father to Matthew and Lucas than as brother. He took his responsibilities to his family seriously in an attempt, Matthew was sure, to please their father.
It had always been that way—Grayson seeking their father’s approval but never seeming to get it, Matthew having it without even trying, and Lucas tossing it back in Bradford Hawthorne’s face so often, and with such relish, that he had ultimately lost it forever.
“Interestingly enough,” Grayson said with a slant of dark brow, his shock now contained behind an implacable mask, “it’s morning, not afternoon, but who am I to quibble about details.”
Unlike Matthew, Grayson had hair as dark as midnight. The tall, forbidding older Hawthorne glanced around the room, no doubt noticing the tumult. “I take it good help is hard to find these days.” He glanced back at Matthew, taking in his appearance. “It also must be hard to find a good bath and a shave. No wonder you missed Sunday dinner.”
Sunday dinner? He had missed Sunday dinner?
Matthew’s head spun. What day was it?
Just beyond the multi-paned window, he could make out snow drifting down from the cloud-laden sky.
A whisper of something teased at the back of his mind. He thought about what the doctor had told him. “We would assume the weakness in your hand and shoulder was due to the wounds. However, accompanied by the insistent pain and occasional slurred speech and blindness, we are forced to consider other problems.”
The man had been reluctant to expand, but in the end he had said if the pain did not recede as was expected, perhaps the pain was due to a progressive degeneration of nerves and tissue.
“If it is this deterioration, as you say,” he had asked carefully, “what do you do?”
The man had grown truly uncomfortable then. “Let’s cross that road if we come to it.”
“Let’s not,” Matthew had replied through gritted teeth. “Tell me.”
Long, painful moments had ticked by. “There is nothing we can do for you if that is the case.” The doctor looked at him closely. “But let’s not think about that now. Let us monitor your progress.”
Matthew understood his progress. None.
“Are you all right, Matthew?”
Matthew dragged his attention back to find Grayson studying him.
“I’m perfectly fine,” he said with more force than was necessary, clenching his hand at his side. But he couldn’t seem to stop the anger, or was it fear? His family couldn’t know what was
The pounding came again, making him flinch at the noise. Someone was there. He could just make out the heated exchange that was taking place beyond the study walls.
“Damn it, Quincy. Step away from that door.”
“But sir! Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“First you tell me he isn’t here, and now you tell me he is unavailable. What is going on here?”
The thick velvet draperies were pulled nearly closed, only a sliver of the world outside showing through. Matthew had no idea how much time had passed since he staggered home and holed up in the study. And based on the voices just beyond the door, he thought to hole up a little longer.
But he knew who was there, and knew as well that his older brother would not be turned away. Too bad it wasn’t his younger brother who had arrived. No doubt Lucas would be more understanding of the disarray Matthew found around him. As the black sheep of the family, Lucas had been in more than his share of predicaments over the years.
Matthew fumbled with a damnably tiny knob on the lamp next to the divan, then stood and straightened his rumpled coat and tie as best he could. With no help for it, he unlocked and opened the door. As soon as he appeared, silence descended in the foyer.
“Good afternoon, Grayson,” he said pleasantly, as if nothing were amiss.
But no one was convinced, least of all his brother.
Matthew bit back a curse when he saw shock crease his brother’s face. Grayson had spent a lifetime acting more as father to Matthew and Lucas than as brother. He took his responsibilities to his family seriously in an attempt, Matthew was sure, to please their father.
It had always been that way—Grayson seeking their father’s approval but never seeming to get it, Matthew having it without even trying, and Lucas tossing it back in Bradford Hawthorne’s face so often, and with such relish, that he had ultimately lost it forever.
“Interestingly enough,” Grayson said with a slant of dark brow, his shock now contained behind an implacable mask, “it’s morning, not afternoon, but who am I to quibble about details.”
Unlike Matthew, Grayson had hair as dark as midnight. The tall, forbidding older Hawthorne glanced around the room, no doubt noticing the tumult. “I take it good help is hard to find these days.” He glanced back at Matthew, taking in his appearance. “It also must be hard to find a good bath and a shave. No wonder you missed Sunday dinner.”
Sunday dinner? He had missed Sunday dinner?
Matthew’s head spun. What day was it?
Just beyond the multi-paned window, he could make out snow drifting down from the cloud-laden sky.
A whisper of something teased at the back of his mind. He thought about what the doctor had told him. “We would assume the weakness in your hand and shoulder was due to the wounds. However, accompanied by the insistent pain and occasional slurred speech and blindness, we are forced to consider other problems.”
The man had been reluctant to expand, but in the end he had said if the pain did not recede as was expected, perhaps the pain was due to a progressive degeneration of nerves and tissue.
“If it is this deterioration, as you say,” he had asked carefully, “what do you do?”
The man had grown truly uncomfortable then. “Let’s cross that road if we come to it.”
“Let’s not,” Matthew had replied through gritted teeth. “Tell me.”
Long, painful moments had ticked by. “There is nothing we can do for you if that is the case.” The doctor looked at him closely. “But let’s not think about that now. Let us monitor your progress.”
Matthew understood his progress. None.
“Are you all right, Matthew?”
Matthew dragged his attention back to find Grayson studying him.
“I’m perfectly fine,” he said with more force than was necessary, clenching his hand at his side. But he couldn’t seem to stop the anger, or was it fear? His family couldn’t know what was
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