Page 86 of Miss Determined
Phillip strode off, leaving Trevor torn between amusement and consternation. So that was the great fraternal reunion?Oh, it’s you. Let’s eat?
He was hungry, and Phillip was being hospitable. Trevor followed, feeling every mile spent in the saddle.
“You knew who I was?” Trevor asked as they reached the breakfast parlor. In the early afternoon, no rising sun poured through the mullioned windows, but the view was still restful and the aroma of roast beef positively ambrosial.
“Help yourself,” Phillip said, passing Trevor a plate. “I did not know who you were, but I knewwhatyou were.”
Trevor braced himself for some well-deserved insults. “What was I?”
“My brother. I have few memories of our mother, but I do recall her telling me on one of her last visits that I had an older brother. A lovely fellow, given name Trevor. He looked a lot like me, and someday, my brother would find me. She died, my brother never came. The old marquess died—let there be rejoicing in the land—and then Purvis presented himself and explained the terms of Papa’s will. Take more than that if you want to keep up your strength.”
Trevor added another slice of beef to his plate. “Purvis told me nothing about you until yesterday morning. He had no idea I’d come to Berkshire. I’ve been mucking about on the Continent for years, having a grand time, and generally trying to avoid becoming Lord Tavistock.”
He could admit that now, though the words still made him uncomfortable.
Phillip took up a plate and piled it high with beef and potatoes. “Purvis is a blight, worse than mildew on a garden crop, but he’s not stupid.”
Trevor set his plate on the table, which had only the one place setting. That lone assortment of cutlery tore at his heart.
Phillip opened a drawer to the sideboard and passed over knife, fork, spoon, and linen napkin. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have set out the good silver.”
The family seat in Surrey had a wholeroomdevoted to storing silverware nobody had used in years. Another room stored elaborate sets of porcelain dishes. A third was reserved for elegant table linens.
“Do you have good silver?” Trevor asked.
“Good enough. Will ale do, or should I ring for wine?”
“I sorely missed English ale when I was on the Continent. Ale will do nicely.”
Trevor hadn’t known what to expect from Phillip. A door slammed in his face, a loud dressing down, simmering fury, demands for money… Those he could have anticipated. That Phillip could be so casual, so blasé about this first encounter as brothers was unnerving.
Then he noticed that Phillip was keeping his right hand from sight, tucking it behind him, using only his left hand to manage the plate, pour the ale, and pass over the cutlery.
“Tell me about your infirmity,” Trevor said, taking a seat to the right of Phillip’s place at the head of the table. “Purvis made it sound as if you were fit only for Bedlam. Had I not met you, his picture would have been as convincing as it was inaccurate.”
Phillip took his place at the head of the table, put his linen on his lap, and sipped his ale. “Granny Jones is my only source for the tale, but I’m told my birth was difficult. The marquess insisted that the midwives be pushed aside in favor of the more fashionable accoucheur. That good fellow got out his forceps and dragged me from the womb literally kicking and screaming. Granny claims the medical expert whom the marquess insisted on employing is the origin of my situation.”
“You were injured by the forceps?”
“Granny was present, said the damned fool nearly twisted my little head off, and from birth, my right shoulder hasn’t been the match of its twin. I don’t pretend to grasp the medical niceties. I only know that the strength in that arm was slow to develop and is still not the equal of my left. The nurses apparently made the situation worse by swaddling me excessively when nature might have been overcoming the problem for me, and that set me back yet further. Then I was mostly kept from sight, and thus other faculties—social abilities, speech—were also slow to develop. Eat your food before it gets cold.”
The beef was tender and thinly sliced, such that Phillip could manage with just a fork. How many other compromises and accommodations had he learned to make, all because the marquess’s word had been law even in the birthing room?
“I am sorry,” Trevor said, taking up his fork. “You have been mistreated as a result of factors well beyond your control.”
“I used to see it that way.” Phillip poured a thick gravy over his mashed potatoes. “Poor little fellow, no mama, papa disgusted by his own son, a reminder of my failings no closer than my right hand… but perhaps you are the one deserving of compassion.”
Of all the things Phillip might have said… “I am a bloody marquess. A dozen properties to my name, more in France and Germany, but don’t tell Purvis. I am in roaring good health and soon to be the toast of every hostess in Mayfair.”
“Who are your people, my lord?” Phillip posed the question to a forkful of steaming mashed potatoes. “The good folk of Crosspatch know me and would take up for me in a heartbeat, though as far as they are concerned, I have no title, no fortune. I’m simply another squire in thrall to his acres. They know not to expect me often at services and damned be to anybody who remarks that oddity.
“They trust me,” Phillip went on, “with their agricultural conundrums, which are legion. They bring me their sick and lame animals because I read pamphlets by the score and have acquired some veterinary expertise. I am valued here, I have a place, and a purpose, and one gorgeous property that is the envy of all who behold it. What do you have?”
“A very self-assured brother prone to lecturing his elders.” Trevor surprised himself with that retort, and he’d apparently pleased Phillip, who was grinning hugely.
“My elder, not my better. At least you grasp that much.”
Trevor tucked into his meal. “You are happy?”
