Page 4 of The Trouble With Titles
After he left Nicholas to spend time with their mother, the day proved uneventful. Long and boring, but finally the sun was setting. It was time to join his Psyche in their garden of flowers.
Simon peered out from his window on the third floor, enjoying the wash of colors on the horizon before leaning out to consider the trellis that was attached to the wall near his window. It was a good three feet from the ledge he leaned from, but it was fortunate that his bedchamber happened to be on the side of the house that had a sturdy vine climbing the wall. Themoment his father had announced the house would be locked, Simon had decided he would use the trellis to climb down. Madeline would be waiting for him even now in the gathering night.
Reaching out an arm, he grabbed hold of a wooden slat and shook it to test its strength. It was sturdy and fastened to the wall securely. Simon climbed out onto the stone ledge that passed beneath the windows. He had considered climbing down in his stockings but decided to wear his riding boots to protect him from the sharp stems sure to poke out of the branches of ivy. They were well grown, as thick as his forearm, and had been creeping up the wall for more decades than he had been on this earth. It was sure to be uncomfortable to descend. Much easier to scale when he returned than to climb down, was his guess.
Grabbing hold of the trellis, he committed, allowing it to take his full weight and soughing in deep relief when it held. He began to gingerly make his way down, surprised by how much it worked the muscles in his shoulders, back, and arms. It took longer than he expected, until he was a few feet from the ground. Using the wall to push off, he dropped down, bending his knees as he hit the ground to dissipate the shock, and then rose up to straighten himself, brushing twigs and leaves from his clothing. When he knew he was all together, he strode along the side of the house to the hidden garden, careful to duck down under the stone balustrades so no one would see him from one of the windows.
Entering the secret garden, he saw Madeline jump to her feet with joy. She must have been wondering where he was?—
A terrible scream rent through the evening, causing Simon’s heart to beat painfully within his chest.
His jaw dropped in horror as his mind attempted to process what was happening. Madeline stared back at him with a flabbergasted expression.
Within a second, he recognized the voice.
“Nicholas!”
He turned on his heel to race back to the side of the house that his window faced, and as he turned the corner, his worst fears were realized. Far beneath his window was the crumpled heap of his little brother, a tiny pile of clothing and limbs, and Simon knew—he knew exactly what had happened.
Rushing forward, he dropped to his knees beside his lifeless brother and ripped off his own gloves. Checking for a pulse, Simon almost fainted with elation when he felt the flicker beneath his fingertips. Sitting back on his haunches, he assessed his brother’s condition, noting that the boy’s leg was twisted at an odd angle.
“It is broken,” announced Madeline, who had approached behind him.
Simon was fighting back tears, guilt wrenching his gut. “You must go home. I must take care of him.”
As he gently scooped Nicholas up in his arms, her soft touch brushed over his shoulder, but by the time he was on his feet and turned around, Madeline was nowhere to be seen. But Simon had no time to consider his Psyche at that moment. Nay, he must take responsibility for his negligence.
His brother weighed almost nothing, still but a child, as Simon made his way with care to the front of the house. Taking most of the boy’s weight with one arm, he managed to knock on the door, which was opened within a few moments by their butler, Walter MacNaby. MacNaby was a most proper upper-servant, with a round face and a ready smile, but the moment he saw Nicholas, his blood drained to leave him pale.
“Send for a doctor,” commanded Simon, stalking past the retainer. As he reached the staircase, his mother was coming down.
“MacNaby, did you hear that dreadful scream?—”
Lady Isla Scott was an ageless beauty of not quite forty years of age, with dark brown hair and striking blue eyes which spotted the limp form in his arms.
“Nicholas?” she shrieked.
Simon watched in despair as she swooned, crumpling into a heap on the stairs, but was helpless to catch her while he had his brother sheltered in his arms. He leapt forward to use his legs as a barrier lest she tumble down.
“Mother?”
Lord help him if the baroness was injured, too. Simon had much to answer for as it was, and he did not need any more added to the substantial burden of culpability he was fighting off as he took care of his current duty. He must see to his brother, and there was no time for his emotions.
Roderick, one of their footmen, appeared in the hall, breaking into a run to bound up to the baroness. He assisted her to sit up, her expression dazed. Simon took it as his cue to run Nicholas up to his bedroom, which was next to Simon’s on the third floor.
Placing the boy into his bed, Simon removed his shoes and breeches, leaving his small clothes in place as he carefully rolled his stocking off the injured leg. Hissing in anguish, Simon stepped back to stare at the limb with a hand clamped over his mouth lest he cast up his accounts at the overwhelming shame of what he had done. The break was bad, bone poking through the skin, and Simon had no knowledge of what to do to help Nicholas while he awaited the doctor’s arrival.
Behind him, the sound of someone entering the room startled him from his misery.
“What is this?” demanded his father, his alarm clear.
“Nicholas fell from … the window.” Simon knew his secret departure was about to come to light, but he could not quite bring himself to admit the truth.
“I do not understand … the window is shut?”
Simon swallowed. The time had arrived faster than he had expected. “My window.”
“Why would he fall from your window?”
