He remained in the center of the sitting room, one hand braced on the mantelpiece. The grandfather clock on the far wall beat out the seconds in threes and sixes, always a hair ahead of the pulse in his neck. A chair sat overturned in the corner, evidence of Dorothy’s earlier panic. He righted it with unnecessary care, as if the act might restore order to the room.
He was about to move toward the bedchamber when he heard the stifled sound of weeping. He turned, and his motherappeared at the threshold, her hands knotted at her chest.
He tried to summon the appropriate words—comfort, assurance, even a joke—but none came. Instead, he opened his arms, and she flew into them as if they were the last stronghold on earth.
“Oh, Augie,” she said, using the name she had not spoken since his childhood. “He is dying.”
He held her, the weight of her grief pressing through the fine muslin of her dress. She wept in great, tearing sobs, the kind that left her gasping. August said nothing. He only tightened his hold, anchoring her against the collapse.
When the worst of it had passed, Dorothy drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “You must tell the girls,” she managed. “They will want to come.”
August nodded. “I will send for them.”
Dorothy looked at his face, searching. “You are so like him. He was always the strong one.”
He could not say what he thought: that strength, in this family, was merely the ability to survive sorrow without showing it. That every wall in Wildmoore House was mortared with reticence.
Instead, he kissed the top of her head and said, “I will take care of it, Mother.”
She pulled away, already assembling her dignity. “Of course, you will. I am being absurd. I should go to him. He needs me.” She patted his arm, gathered her shawl, and vanished into the adjoining room.
August waited until he heard the door close behind her then let his own shoulders drop. The air in the room was thick with the sweet, rotting perfume of lilies. He crossed to the window and stared out at the darkening lawn, the yew hedges casting elongated shadows. He pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose, pinching until the world sharpened.
He lasted sixty seconds. Then, with a violence that startled even himself, he struck the mantelpiece with his palm. A blue china vase toppled and shattered, shards skittering across the hearth. He stared at the wreckage, heart pounding, and forced himself to step away.
He needed to move, to act, to fix.
He fled the room and walked the length of the hall, taking the stairs two at a time to the first floor. He went straight to the Duke’s study, the true nerve center of the house. The door was unlocked; August pushed inside and made for the desk. He dropped into the chair, opened the center drawer, and withdrew a sheaf of parchment. The quill in his hand shook.
He made a list: The lawyers to contact. The staff to inform. The arrangements for the estate, the correspondence for Parliament, the instructions for the burial. For every item he crossed off, three more took its place. He wrote with such pressure that the nib cut through the paper.
His breathing came fast, each inhale sharp and insufficient.
The first time the door creaked, he ignored it. He thought it was the wind.
The second time, a voice said, “August?”
He froze, and for a moment, he could not bring himself to look.
He heard the sound of slippers on the carpet. Eliza did not speak again. She waited.
He forced the words out, voice flat and strange, “He is dying. Days, they say. Perhaps a week.”
Eliza said nothing.
He kept his eyes on the desk. “There is much to be arranged. The title. The transition. The servants will be unsettled and the tenants. The girls cannot be told like this. I will?—”
She spoke his name again, very quietly. “August.”
He could not remember the last time anyone had said it without irony or scorn. The syllables pulled at something he thought he had buried.
He tried to continue. “I have a list. I need to—” But his hand trembled so violently that the quill made a jag across the page. He stared at it, mortified.
She crossed to the desk and without a word, took the quill from his grasp, and he let her.
She set it down and stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on the blotter.
He watched the tremor in his own fingers, unable to stop it.