down the glass. He had every
intention of leaving, having recoiled from such a comparison.
“I have not dismissed you.”
At his father’s bark, Jules spun and eyed his
sire with even frostier green eyes. “With all due respect, Your
Grace. I am well past the age or inclination of needing your
approval of my actions, caring of your suppositions of my
character, or having an interest in any quest for mending your
relationships—or lack thereof, with your sons.”
“As you say, Jules.” Artis nodded with more
calmness than Jules expected. “I have only what you will indulge
me. I begged only once before in my life, and that was to your
mother—on my knees.”
Jules felt queasy imagining such a thing. His
father, for all his faults, was a dignified man.
“Yes. I did that, so that she would allow me
to have Raith, to raise him. It still was not enough. She made us
all pay—made you, the innocent pay. Although as I said, I do not
think she had the capacity to love or be affectionate to anyone. My
sins did not help. My emotional absence—self-preservation, I
thought it, did not help.”
Artis walked to the desk and deposited the
pipe. He raked a hand through his hair, then let it drop, gazing at
the desktop. He husked, “Do you know where he is, Jules.
Raith?”
“I did, once,” Jules supplied tightly. “I
knew that when he left home he found work in summerset on an estate
there, and later on the docks, in Liverpool.”
“Did you know he wed?”
“No. I had not heard that.”
Artis looked at him, his eyes showing pain.
“She was murdered…terribly butchered.”
Jules felt a wave of shock roll through him.
“When?”
“Not long after the marriage. She…they, must
have… lived in town, for she washed up on the Thames. I do not
know….someone…someone sent me a missive. I have no clue who it was,
but…”
Jules cut in, “Mother lied to him. I heard
her. She told him that you’d used your influence to falsify the
documents of his inheritance—that he was born from your raping a
maid who’d taken her life…that you ignored him because you wanted
him sent away, and she’d been the one to decide to keep him.”
Artis sighed and sat down on the edge of the
desk. “I know. Pour me a whiskey, will you, my boy?” He looked at
his hands that were not steady.
Jules poured it, and one for himself. He took
it over and handed it to his father. His own, he carried to the
French doors, now needing air and feeling a kind of sinister finger
touch his spine. “I knew she lied, because I’d seen the letters you
exchanged with Raith’s uncle. But I had my own reasons for not
defending you—or enlightening him.”
“I don’t blame you, Jules. You had no more
except titles and wealth than your brothers did. Matilda did her
best to drive any joy, emotion, or warmth, out of all of our lives.
And, I let her get by with it. I do not blame you. If not that lie,
she would have driven him away by other means. She was furious that
he inherited anything. She loathed the sight of him. Of us all, I
suppose.”
Jules shrugged but inwardly mused that he was
being blackmailed—possibly on the brink of ruin, if not scandal,
and any prospect of marriage would certainly vanish with that sort
of implication. Raith’s wife had been murdered. Blaise might well
be blind for the rest of his life. Bloody hell. What curse was upon
them all, that they could not escape that remoteness and
darkness?
With whiskey still burning his throat, Artis
said at last, “I would not blame you, of course, if you simply
chose to wed and get on with your life. Make more of it, than those
before you have. You’ve certainly the sort of rep and esteem among
our peers that few can achieve.”
Jules teeth set a moment. He stared out at
the garden in a kind of blurred non-vision. If his father only
knew.
Finishing the whiskey, feeling the effects of
it flush his skin, he murmured, “How much does Coulborne know?”
“Everything. He was
intention of leaving, having recoiled from such a comparison.
“I have not dismissed you.”
At his father’s bark, Jules spun and eyed his
sire with even frostier green eyes. “With all due respect, Your
Grace. I am well past the age or inclination of needing your
approval of my actions, caring of your suppositions of my
character, or having an interest in any quest for mending your
relationships—or lack thereof, with your sons.”
“As you say, Jules.” Artis nodded with more
calmness than Jules expected. “I have only what you will indulge
me. I begged only once before in my life, and that was to your
mother—on my knees.”
Jules felt queasy imagining such a thing. His
father, for all his faults, was a dignified man.
“Yes. I did that, so that she would allow me
to have Raith, to raise him. It still was not enough. She made us
all pay—made you, the innocent pay. Although as I said, I do not
think she had the capacity to love or be affectionate to anyone. My
sins did not help. My emotional absence—self-preservation, I
thought it, did not help.”
Artis walked to the desk and deposited the
pipe. He raked a hand through his hair, then let it drop, gazing at
the desktop. He husked, “Do you know where he is, Jules.
Raith?”
“I did, once,” Jules supplied tightly. “I
knew that when he left home he found work in summerset on an estate
there, and later on the docks, in Liverpool.”
“Did you know he wed?”
“No. I had not heard that.”
Artis looked at him, his eyes showing pain.
“She was murdered…terribly butchered.”
Jules felt a wave of shock roll through him.
“When?”
“Not long after the marriage. She…they, must
have… lived in town, for she washed up on the Thames. I do not
know….someone…someone sent me a missive. I have no clue who it was,
but…”
Jules cut in, “Mother lied to him. I heard
her. She told him that you’d used your influence to falsify the
documents of his inheritance—that he was born from your raping a
maid who’d taken her life…that you ignored him because you wanted
him sent away, and she’d been the one to decide to keep him.”
Artis sighed and sat down on the edge of the
desk. “I know. Pour me a whiskey, will you, my boy?” He looked at
his hands that were not steady.
Jules poured it, and one for himself. He took
it over and handed it to his father. His own, he carried to the
French doors, now needing air and feeling a kind of sinister finger
touch his spine. “I knew she lied, because I’d seen the letters you
exchanged with Raith’s uncle. But I had my own reasons for not
defending you—or enlightening him.”
“I don’t blame you, Jules. You had no more
except titles and wealth than your brothers did. Matilda did her
best to drive any joy, emotion, or warmth, out of all of our lives.
And, I let her get by with it. I do not blame you. If not that lie,
she would have driven him away by other means. She was furious that
he inherited anything. She loathed the sight of him. Of us all, I
suppose.”
Jules shrugged but inwardly mused that he was
being blackmailed—possibly on the brink of ruin, if not scandal,
and any prospect of marriage would certainly vanish with that sort
of implication. Raith’s wife had been murdered. Blaise might well
be blind for the rest of his life. Bloody hell. What curse was upon
them all, that they could not escape that remoteness and
darkness?
With whiskey still burning his throat, Artis
said at last, “I would not blame you, of course, if you simply
chose to wed and get on with your life. Make more of it, than those
before you have. You’ve certainly the sort of rep and esteem among
our peers that few can achieve.”
Jules teeth set a moment. He stared out at
the garden in a kind of blurred non-vision. If his father only
knew.
Finishing the whiskey, feeling the effects of
it flush his skin, he murmured, “How much does Coulborne know?”
“Everything. He was
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