Page 91 of Miss Dignified
The great philosopher had had no particular wisdom to impart for when a man had made a complete hash out of everything and must—tail between his legs—leave the land and people he’d fought for. Marcus thumbed through his Latin version ofTheMeditations, searching in vain for some comfort, some perspective on the confusion that his life had become.
A thump on the door startled him half off of his chair, though at least nobody saw that reaction. No Dunacre on hand to laugh uproariously when Marcus had flinched at distant gunfire, to stick out a foot to trip him in the odd moment, to order him to empty the damned chamber pot like some spotty subaltern.
“Coming,” Marcus called, noting the page number at which he’d stopped reading.
He opened the door without peeking, which William Brook had told him was the height of stupidity, but what did it matter if the watch, the archangel Michael, or Old Scratch himself had come to call? In a few days, Marcus would leave England, and that…
He was unhappy about that, and all the quotations in the world could not soothe his unhappiness away. He was leaving Lydia and Mama. Papa had told him that the whole of Tremont and the whole of England mattered naught, compared to keeping Lydia and Mama safe and happy.
“Wesley, good day.” When had Wesley become such a dandy, and why didn’t he know that fancy dress was a beacon for the pickpockets?
“I know not what’s good about it,” Wesley said, sauntering into Marcus’s room, “when I must call upon you at this detestable privy of a domicile, but such is my familial loyalty that here I am.”
“And I am glad to see you.” Marcus had been gladder to see Lydia, also horrified. Lydia had been her same self, entirely composed, articulate, and absolutely sure of herself. She should have been the earl, a thought that had plagued Marcus since her visit.
She had been herself, while Marcus had been a far less worthy brother than she deserved.
“You will be more glad to see this,” Wesley said, producing a folded sheet of paper from a breast pocket of his morning coat. “This is your ticket of passage on theRebecca Louise, bound for Philadelphia. You leave at week’s end, assuming tide and weather permit. You will be done forever with this ghastly room in this beastly neighborhood and all the wretchedness that goes with it.”
Wesley beamed at Marcus, while Marcus scanned the ticket. “I’m to travel insteerage?”
“It’s only for a few weeks, dear boy, and you will attract less notice that way.”
“I will attract foul miasmas and diseases that way, Wesley. Please see if second-class passage is available, and if not…”
Marcus considered waiting until another ship sailed, London being one of the busiest ports in the world.
“At this late date,” Wesley retorted, “I can promise you no better berth will be available. Either you want to put the past behind you and start a new life, or you want to die in disgrace at the end of a rope, the title attainted, the earldom’s wealth forfeited to that mincing buffoon we call our monarch. I’m profoundly sorry to be so blunt, but those are your options, dear boy.”
Wesley’sprofoundremorse was a subtle thing, if it existed, but then, Marcus had relied on Wesley far more than was typical even between cousins. Wesley was doubtless tired of dealing with Marcus and his troubles.
“Did you bring the coin?” Marcus asked, rather than antagonize his cousin further.
Wesley pulled a face. “That is taking a bit more time. Banks hate to part with the ready. Never fear that I’ll have what you ask before you sail.” Wesley unscrewed the handle of his ebony walking stick and extracted a tiny silver cup and an oblong silver flask.
He poured himself a portion, downed it, and offered a second serving to Marcus, who refused.
“Out of the habit of consuming decent libation?” Wesley asked, reassembling his accessory. “I suppose soldiering doesn’t exactly refine the tastes, does it? And you will soon no longer be the earl, so what good are refined tastes to you anyway?”
Wesley offered a cheery smile with that observation, and Marcus remained silent. He had learned to remain silent around Dunacre, to avoid at least the verbal traps, unless Dunacre ordered him to answer. If the answer involved a regulation, Marcus could quote relevant military writ, chapter and verse.
If the answer involved anything else, Marcus had learned that only flattery and fawning distracted Dunacre from his tirades.
Wesley was reminding Marcus increasingly of Dunacre, oddly enough. Cheerful about the wrong things, very slow to attend to what few tasks he could not delegate, and disrespectful of protocol, as a mean boy breaks rules to see if anybody will scold him.
That bit with the cane-flask, for example. Wesley should have offered Marcus the first drink. Papa had said that manners were at heart a display of consideration for others, not just some list of rules to be memorized. Mama had said the same thing, probably quoting Papa.
“I have wondered,” Marcus said slowly, “if the title ought not to be attainted. If I ought not to stand trial and endure the consequences of my actions.”
Wesley looked up from screwing together his cane, his expression devoid of all good humor. “Have you parted with what few wits the Deity bestowed upon you? I care not what old Pompous Aurelius said about taking one’s lumps, dear boy. He hadn’t your mama and sister to consider, or an uncle who has spent years attending to your properties without a word of thanks from you.”
Wesley stalked over to him, the cane still in two pieces. “And this great display of stupidity on your part would accomplish exactly what, Marcus? Finchly fell on the field of honor, as he deserved to fall. Executing you for the entertainment of the mob can’t undo that. You can’t undo that Lydia allowed him unspeakable liberties. You can’t undo that your mama would die of mortification if she knew any of the details. Put away your childish yearning for drama and be grateful there’s a place for you on theRebecca Louise.”
Once upon a time, Dunacre had come down with dysentery. He’d been too weak to leave his tent and too incapacitated by loose bowels to even don his uniform. He’d turned up all sweet and sincere for those two weeks, politely asking Marcus to read him the dispatches, to carry reports to headquarters that made no mention of Dunacre’s illness.
He’d thanked Marcus and offered him confidences that had been, in fact, simply fears and opinions.
The day the illness had passed, Dunacre had gone back to his schoolboy nastiness, tripping Marcus, referring to him as My Lord Lacypants, and comparing him with casual cruelty to the far more accomplished Captain Powell.
