Page 67 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“No, you aren’t listening to me. I know you stole money, and if you want to figure out a way to live honestly, I’ll be glad of it. But why were you good at it? Walk over to St. Giles and ask any lad if he’d tell a few lies in order to put food in his mouth. Half of them would merrily stab you if it meant they’d have a guarantee to see next summer. You aren’t any more or less dishonest than the next person with an empty belly.” She bent her head over her work. “I always felt bad that you had to leave after a job.”
Georgie goggled at her. “What?”
“You became fond of your marks. At least a little. And then you had to take their money and disappear. That’s not easy on a man like you.”
Georgie reeled. “I dare say it wasn’t easy on them either.”
“Enough!” she snapped. “You can feel guilty to your heart’s content after I go back downstairs.” She rose to her feet, tucking her embroidery back into her pocket. “But so help me, Georgie, figure out a way to live your life so you’re not always saying good-bye.” She swept silently out of the room.
Sarah was right, of course. It had always taken him so much effort to convince himself that he didn’t care for his marks, that his interest and liking for them were only part of the act. In the end he fooled himself better than he ever tricked one of his marks. He had stolen their money, but without even realizing it he had swindled himself out of a life, out of friends and purpose and meaning.
But what had happened with Lawrence was of another magnitude entirely. Georgie had known almost from the beginning that he wouldn’t have the heart to harm Lawrence. He had gone out of his way to do the opposite—to help him, to help Simon. Lawrence had repaid him in kind. He had somehow traveled across the country to rescue him.
And then he had left.
Georgie stood and walked to the window on weak, shaky legs. Three days in bed had taken their toll. The window looked over a quiet side street lined with a few spindly trees. He could stay here, he supposed, in this small room with pretty wallpaper and a cozy feather bed. He could do a bit of somewhat honest work for Jack and try to build a sort of life for himself.
Still fully dressed, he lay on the bed again, drifting in and out of sleep. He was tired to the marrow of his bones. Only when the shadows on the wall had shortened and then lengthened again did he rise, and even then he still felt sapped of strength.
When he opened the bedroom door, he heard voices and the clink of china and glass that meant a meal was in progress. Suddenly, his stomach seemed to remember the past week of irregular meals. As little as he wanted company, he couldn’t ignore the rumbling of his belly.
Pausing on the threshold of the tiny downstairs parlor his brother and Oliver used as a dining room, he saw that Sarah had stayed for dinner. They had neared the end of the meal, by the looks of things, and were now lingering at the table over the last few bites and some easy conversation. Jack and Oliver kept the bare minimum of servants—fewer servants meant fewer chances of their relationship being exposed for what it was—and the maid hadn’t come to clear the table, so the cloth was littered with napkins and crumbs and the detritus of a meal well enjoyed.
Jack’s arm was casually slung over the back of Oliver’s chair, as if that were where it belonged. As Georgie watched, Oliver tipped his head back against Jack’s arm and turned a bit to smile lazily at his companion. To Georgie’s amazement, Jack smiled back. Georgie could count on one hand the number of times he had ever seen his brother smile. But here he was, giving Oliver as soppy a grin as Georgie had ever witnessed in his life.
It was Sarah who first spotted Georgie. “Finished your beauty sleep?”
All three of them ignored Georgie’s protests, shoving him down into a chair and heaping food onto his plate. He had a few bites of pigeon pie, and then before he knew it, he had eaten every last scrap of food on the table. He must also have consumed a fair bit of wine, because his head was pleasantly muzzy.
His family—it occurred to him that Oliver was family too—was carefully refraining from asking him any questions. Occasionally, Jack opened his mouth, only to receive a pointed glare from Sarah and a jab in the side from Oliver’s elbow. They were treating him with kid gloves, as if he were fragile and in danger of breaking.
Hewasfragile, truth be told. Whatever had happened with Lawrence had left his heart pulpy and exposed, like flesh after a bad burn. He wanted to bury it back away, pretend he had never found it in the first place.
Draining the last few drops of wine in his glass, he glanced at his brother, who was flicking a crumb off Oliver’s lapel. How, despite their shared origin, was Jack’s heart a functioning organ, while his own was a putrid and vulnerable wound?
“I’m going back to Cornwall,” Georgie said impulsively, answering the question they weren’t asking, the same question he had been torturing himself with all day.
“You’re in no state to travel,” said Sarah. At the same time, Jack coughed, choking on his wine.
“Have you, ah, been invited?” Oliver asked tactfully.
“Not precisely,” Georgie admitted. “Not at all, in fact.” He thought of Lawrence’s parting words. “Far from it.” But it was worth trying.
“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Jack protested. “You can stay here as long as you like.”
“Or don’t leave at all,” Oliver added. “We always meant that room for you.”
Georgie hadn’t known that and now felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“But how will you . . . ” Jack’s voice trailed off. “What will you do there?”
What would he do there? He’d sort Lawrence’s correspondence and make sure the smugglers didn’t set foot on Penkellis soil. He’d write a stern letter to the headmaster at Harrow, demanding that he make sure Simon got enough to eat. He’d invite Lady Standish for a few weeks in the spring, he’d talk to the vicar about holding a fete for the village, and he’d train Barnabus to do something other than sleep.
He’d kiss Lawrence every chance he got.
“What Jack is getting at is whether you have any particular thievery in mind,” Sarah said. “He’s wondering whether to start bribing magistrates in Cornwall.”
Georgie winced. “Nothing like that.”
