Page 9 of The Heir
“Why not sell what isn’t entailed? You wear yourself out, Gayle, trying to keep track of it all and staying on top of His Grace’s queer starts.”
“I have sold several properties that were only marginally producing, and I should be doing a better job of keeping you informed of such developments, as you are, dear Brother, the spare of record.”
“Yes,” Val said, holding up a hand, “as in, ‘spare me.’ I’ll pay attention if you insist, but please do not intimate to His Grace I give a hearty goddamn for any of it.”
“Ah.” Westhaven smiled, going to the sideboard to pour them each a finger of brandy. “Except you do. How are the manufactories coming?”
“I don’t think of them as manufactories, but we’re managing.”
“Business is good?” Westhaven asked, hoping he wasn’t offending his brother.
“Business in the years immediately following decades of war is going to be unpredictable,” Val said, accepting his drink. “People want pleasure and beauty and relief from their cares, and music provides that. But there is also a widespread lack of coin.”
“In some strata,” Westhaven agreed. “But organizations, like schools and churches and village assemblies are not quite as susceptible to that lack of coin, and they all buy pianos.”
“So they do.” Val saluted his brother with his glass. “I hadn’t thought of that, because I myself have never performed in such venues, but you are right. This confirms, of course, my bone-deep conviction you are better suited to the dukedom than I.”
“Because I have one minimally useful idea?” Westhaven asked, going to the bell pull.
“Because you think about things, endlessly, and in depth. I used to think you were slow.”
“I am slow, compared to the rest of the family, but I have my uses.”
“You don’t honestly believe that. You are not as outgoing as our siblings, perhaps, but we lack your ability to concentrate on a problem until the damned thing lies in tiny pieces at our mental feet.”
Westhaven set aside his drink. “Perhaps, but we needn’t stand here throwing flowers at each other, when we could be stuffing ourselves with muffins and lemonade.”
“Traveling does give one a thirst, and it is hotter than blazes, even at Morelands. Speaking of flowers, though, your establishment has benefited from the warmer weather.” He nodded at the flowers around the room.
“My housekeeper,” Westhaven said, going to the door to order tea. “Mrs. Seaton is…”
“Yes?” Westhaven saw Val was watching him closely, as only a sibling alert to the subtleties might.
“One can keep a house tidy,” Westhaven said, “and one can make it… homey. She does both.”
He’d noticed it, after his mishap with the fireplace poker earlier in the week. If he looked closely, the details were evident: The windows weren’t just clean, they sparkled. The woodwork gleamed and smelled of lemon oil and beeswax; the carpets all looked freshly sanded and beaten; the whole house was free of dust and clutter. And more subtly, air moved through the rooms on softly fragrant currents.
“She must be feeding you properly, as well,” Val noted. “You’ve lost some of that perpetually lean and hungry look.”
“That is a function of simply having my own home for the past few months. His Grace wears on one, and our sisters, while dear, destroy a man’s peace regularly.”
“His Grace sets a very childish example.” Val put his empty glass back on the sideboard. “I think you do well being both brother and earl, and you did better getting the damned power of attorney from him and corralling his ridiculous impulses where they can do little harm. That was particularly well done of you, Westhaven.”
“At too high a price.”
“But you didn’t end up marrying the lady,” Val pointed out, “so all’s well.”
“All will not be well until I have presented His Grace with several legitimate grandsons, and even then, he’ll probably still want more.” He went to the French doors overlooking his terrace as he spoke.
“He’ll die eventually,” Val said. “Almost did last winter, in fact.”
“He was brought down more by the quacks who bled him incessantly than by lung fever itself.” Westhaven glanced over his shoulder at his brother and scowled. “If I am ever seriously ill, Valentine, you must promise to keep the damned quacks and butchers away from me. A comely nurse and the occasional medicinal tot, but otherwise, leave it in the hands of the Almighty.” He swiveled his gaze back to the terrace and watched as Mrs. Seaton appeared, baskets and shears in hand while she marched to the cutting garden along one low stone wall.
“You put me on the spot.” Val smiled. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t do everything in my power to keep you alive, despite your wishes to the contrary?”
“Then pray for my continued good health.” Mrs. Seaton was bareheaded today, her dark mane pulled back into a thick knot at her nape. By firelight, he knew, there were red highlights in that hair.
Lemonade arrived, complete with fat muffins, fresh bread with butter, sliced meats and cheese, sliced fruit, and a petite bouquet of violets on the tray. Nestled in a little folded square of linen were four pieces of marzipan, glazed to resemble fruit.
