Albert ignored the sarcasm. “I wanted you to know how to be alone.”
August considered. “I have mastered the skill.”
“I see that.” Albert leaned his head back, eyelids fluttering. “But I see something else, too. You are building a wall even as you furnish the house. Every act of kindness, every perfect answer, is another stone.” He paused, catching his breath. “You should let someone inside before it hardens for good.”
August said nothing.
Albert pressed on. “It is not shameful to need. Even a Marquess such as yourself is allowed to want.”
August tried for a laugh, but the sound caught. He cleared his throat. “Are you preparing your deathbed speech already, Father? I had hoped for more fanfare.”
Albert’s mouth twisted. “If I had my way, I would die in the midst of a Parliament scandal or perhaps at the gaming table, cards in hand and everyone in the room cursing my name.”
“I will see what I can arrange,” August replied.
Albert smiled, thin but genuine. He reached for August’s wrist, grip dry and papery. “You were a good son. Better than I deserved.” The words landed with the weight of finality.
August covered his father’s hand with his own. “You are not done yet.”
Albert coughed again then laughed. “No, I suppose not. I have at least two more dramatic recoveries in me.” He drew a deep breath, as if to savor the morning. “But mark me, August: do not let your heart turn to marble. Even if it keeps you standing when the rest of the world crumbles.”
August absorbed this. For the first time, he had no clever answer.
Albert relaxed against the pillows, eyes closing. The effort of the conversation had drained him, leaving his features slack. After a moment, his breathing slowed.
August waited, counting the rise and fall of his father’s chest, before he rose and adjusted the blanket, tucking it in at the shoulders. He moved the ledger to the bedside table where Albert could reach it if he woke. He poured another glass of water, set it within easy distance, and cleared away the medicines into a neat row.
At the door, he paused and looked back. Albert’s hand was still curled, fingers bent as if holding something invisible.
August watched a moment longer then left the room, closing the door with the gentlest click.
He walked the hallway with even steps, already plotting the hours ahead—the tenants, the letters, the staff meeting, and, yes, the necessary visit to London. But the words echoed with each stride:do not let your heart turn to marble.
He would have laughed, but the sound caught somewhere beneath his ribs.
Instead, he straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair, and prepared himself for the next performance.
“There are at least four windows in this room, Mrs. Finch, and yet I would wager none of them have been opened in a year.” Eliza’s voice carried through the hallway as August passed the drawing room.
He paused and listened. He liked the sound of her voice when she believed herself unobserved. She spoke softer yet delivered her point.
“His Grace always preferred the curtains drawn,” Mrs. Finch replied, the affection in her tone as pronounced as the deference. “Said the sun was a brute and could not be trusted.”
Eliza made a small sound of agreement. “I cannot fault his logic, but I will suffer.”
“Shall I open the windows for you, My Lady?”
“That would be delightful.”
There was a scrape of sash and a burst of clean air as Mrs. Finch obliged. August stood outside the threshold, coat still on, hat in hand, feeling suddenly ridiculous. For years, he had entered every room as though he owned the air inside it. Now, he hovered in a liminal space, uncertain whether he was welcome or only expected.
He looked in.
Eliza stood with her back to him, arms folded, the white muslin of her frock almost glowing against the dark wood paneling. Her hair—always so perfectly arranged for the benefit of London—had surrendered to the country humidity, several strands escaping the knot to frame her cheek. Mrs. Finch was at the window, wresting a particularly stubborn catch.
For a moment, August simply watched. He was struck, not for the first time, by the unremarkable symmetry of her features: the mouth too often pressed into a line, the straight nose, the remarkable clarity of her eyes. Nothing in her appearance would have made her beautiful, and yet she unsettled the entire composition of a room by being in it.
She turned, as if she felt the pressure of his gaze. Her posture altered instantly; her shoulders pulled back, and her chin rose slightly. He had never seen her relax in his presence, not truly, and he hated the way this lingered between them.