Page 68 of The Best of Friends
“Cambridge isn’t the same without you,” Duke said.
“Dull as twice-boiled cabbage, is it?” Toss asked with a grin.
“It is certainly quieter.” Duke had a way of appearing entirely serious despite having an inarguable sense of humor. Those who were given the opportunity to truly come to know him saw who he was underneath the unapproachable demeanor. But few were permitted to do so.
“The flat especially,” Fennell said. “The pianoforte hasn’t been touched.”
“Maybe dear old Mrs. Hill would consider selling it to me for far less than it’s worth. I’d just have to decide where to hide it.”
“Charlie said Laurence the Lout was living up to his name,” Fennell said. “I still can’t believe he sold the pianoforte just to spite you.”
“Being spiteful was probably his favorite part.”
“If he was paying the least attention tonight, he’s calling himself a fool for discarding the instrument,” Duke said. “You demonstrated quite clearly why the Cambridge dons saw such potential in you.”
A potential the Royal Society of Musicians didn’t see in him. “I can’t seem to gain acceptance in my field, and I can’t afford to return to Cambridge. Embarrassed or not, Laurence has managed to snatch away my future.”
“I never thought I’d be grateful not to have brothers,” Fennel said, “but I am in this moment.”
“On behalf of the rest of us, I think I should be offended,” Colm said with a laugh. “I was told this was a brotherhood. Has it been pretended all along?”
“Maybe that’s what we should start calling ourselves,” Duke said. His tone was serious but one that Toss recognized was also a little jesting. “The Pretended Brotherhood.”
“I suspect Artemis would find that far too dull,” Toss said.
They sat and chatted, quite at their leisure. It was almost like being back at Cambridge again, passing a pleasant and banter-filled evening, allowing their cares to subside for a time.
“Any idea who’s winning this game you’re playing with Daria?” Fennel asked.
Before Toss could answer, Duke did. “Oh, they’re both winning.” There was a dryness to the answer that, historically, had accompanied his philosophical observations.
“Something you’d like to share with the rest of us?” Toss did his best impression of one of their least favorite people at Cambridge, a particularly self-important man with a permanent sneer.
“We’ve been here only a matter of hours, and it’s obvious to even the two of us”—Duke motioned to himself and Fennel alternately—“that the nature of the game has changed. You’re full smitten.”
“Oh, we passed the smitten stage days and days ago,” Toss said in dramatically annoyed tones. “Do try to keep up.”
“I am assuming, then,” Fennel said, “that you have reached the point where she finds charming all those things about you that we know to be annoyances.”
“What else? How could she not be utterly enthralled by a gentleman with no future, income, freedom, or the minutest idea of what in the world he is going to do with his life?”
“Who wouldn’t be instantly besotted with someone boasting that list?” Fennel said.
“If you had a little less facial hair, I’d be half in love with you myself.” Colm grinned, a sign, Toss hoped, that he didn’t begrudge him Daria’s affections.
“For me,” Fennel said, “it’s not the facial hair so much as the smell.”
Colm nodded. “He does have a distinct odor, doesn’t he?”
“We’ve been telling him for years.”
Toss leaned back in his chair and held his arms out in a show of self-aggrandizement. “What you smell, gentlemen, is your own jealousy.”
“And just a hint of whatever wood pianofortes are made of,” Fennel added.
“Lud, I miss being at Cambridge with you two.” Toss shook his head. “It’s unfair that this pretended brotherhood of ours is fractured at the moment.”
“‘Pretended Brotherhood’ is too depressing,” Fennel said. “We need to keep thinking.”
