In the Brief Eternal Silence (85 page)

With the closing of that door, he seemed in
no hurry at all, only leaned upon his cane once again, took his
hand from her shoulder and moved it to cup her chin. “Come to me,
Lizzie,” he told her. “For tonight is our moment of brief, eternal
silence between the lightning's striking and the rolling of the
thunder. There will be no distraction for me tonight and my
attention will be upon you fully. For this one night we shall live
in a cottage surrounded by gardens and there will be no other
consideration except for how we care for each other.”

Chapter Thirty-two

It was a difficult interview with Andrew when
he arrived, but St.

James had not foreseen it as any but such.
For some truths are so difficult to accept that one searches with
eagerness for lies if only to console oneself. Although Andrew had
matured to a degree that he recognized this tendency, it still
seemed they had to go over many points repeatedly for the full
import to settle long enough to be digested.

Even with the most of his mother's
confessions still fresh in his mind, his grief over her death and
his grandmother's was enough to induce him to make certain
accusations. Accusations that St. James had sent grandmother in his
stead. Accusations that St. James had been blinded by rage and
furious vendetta and had never had any intention other than
murdering Andrew's mother outright.

Of which St. James replied, “Indeed, you are
correct, Andrew. Up until the moment I gave you the draft made out
on your account held in trust by her, I had every intention of
stomping her into a lifeless mass upon the floor. For I dare say
that shooting her would not have satisfied me in the least.”

And if this brutal summary made Andrew
blanche and become sickened with disgust, reminding him of how his
mother had died, it also held such a ring of unsuppressed truth
that he knew St. James' further answers were equally as honest.

It was not a matter for a single afternoon,
nor even a single day, nor week, nor as St. James reflected, even a
single lifetime. But Andrew did not leave the Squire's home for
many days, and his willingness to be there said much about that
young man's character.

Miss Murdock did not interfere with these
meetings, which began in the Squire's bedchamber and as the week
progressed moved to the parlor and then to slow walks outside in
the cold air. December was advancing as was Christmas. As was the
twenty-fourth anniversary of the deaths of William Desmond Larrimer
and his wife and their unborn child.

But Miss Murdock only left St. James to his
business and she went about her own. Mrs. Herriot returned as did
Jeannie and the other staff. Miss Murdock tolerated the cook and
she kept on one maid and Jeannie, but she convinced Mrs. Herriot to
return to Morningside and ensure that it was made ready, for the
duke would be returning there for the holidays.

And as Mrs. Herriot was not quite bold enough
to ask Miss Murdock if she would be returning with him, Miss
Murdock left that unasked question equally unanswered.

For the most part, Lizzie managed to keep the
house in some degree of peace.

She did not ask St. James of his
conversations with Andrew, but she came to understand that Andrew
had learned much more of the true circumstances of St. James'
parents' deaths than St. James had ever fathomed, and many evenings
St. James spent alone, only silently brooding in his room.

He came to her no more in the night, and she
knew that he would not. It was one thing for those other members of
the household to have their suspicions, it was quite another to
risk actual detection, and she knew he would not do that to her.
But she was satisfied that what he had sought she had supplied and
throughout all these long days of reckoning, it seemed to be
sustaining him in a way that she did not understand.

Only on occasion when he came out of his deep
preoccupations did he flash her a look from his gold eyes that was
intense with remembered pleasure and bright with anticipated
renewal did she then falter in whatever she may be doing and only
stand blushing beneath his gaze.

But for now, it was very much as he had
foreseen and they were both taken up with the task of helping
Andrew find some semblance of order in a world that had been torn
apart, very much as St. James' had been at the age of ten.

But there came a day when further discussion
would reveal no more truths, and that the dust must again settle
and on that day, Andrew ordered his coach made ready, for it had
remained at the Squire's after Effington's use of it and
return.

And Andrew dressed for leaving and when he
was ready he went down the hall to St. James' bedroom and knocked
upon the door. Effington opened it and St. James looked up from
where he was reading the Bible in a chair near the window. His
stitches had been cut from his cheek, but the scar was thick and
shiny with newness, and Andrew still flinched each time he looked
at it. St. James' words came back to him, for he had said with a
strange twist to his mouth when conversation had turned to what
could be called nothing so much as a 'conversation piece' that he
considered it very much his 'Tyler scar'.

And although Andrew could not fathom why St.
James should determine it as such, he had observed that his normal
habit of rubbing his upper lip with the tip of his finger when deep
in thought had metamorphosed into a rubbing of this shiny scar upon
his cheek instead.

St. James looked at him now and something
about the expression in Andrew's face caused the tip of his finger
to rub with thoughtfulness up that scar. “Leave us, Effington, and
see if Miss Murdock is in need of assistance, as I still do not
like how drastically she has reduced the staff of the house.”

And Effington only bowed out and closed the
door behind Andrew.

Andrew, at a loss for words at this abrupt
setting of mood in the room, turned and paced a little. And he
almost stopped when he realized how much his action mirrored the
habit of the man that sat across the bedchamber from him. But he
continued, for he did find it a good means to pace thoughts that
were running so quickly through his head that he feared he would
lose the full significance of them in their rapidity.

And it was frightening to think at such speed
that he felt that he would reach a conclusion without having a
clear idea of what avenues he had used to attain it. And indeed, he
found that he was at the conclusion and that in his pacing he was
thinking backward, finding the roads that had led him there and
going over them and testing them for soundness and his thinking was
only verification for what he had already come to know as true.

And it was disquieting to him to think that
whenever his brother had paced and Andrew had thought it was in
effort to reach a decision, St. James had in reality already made
his decision and had only been back-testing it in his mind with
dreadful and calculating determination to make sure that it was the
absolute soundest decision he could make.

For a twenty-three year old young man the
questioning of his own impetuousness was a new experience for him.
And St. James, he guessed with bitterness, had been doing such
since he was ten.

With this thought he turned and spoke to the
waiting man who had observed all this pacing in silence, only
rubbing his scar.

“There is something I have held back from
you, St. James,” Andrew began.

“Indeed?” St. James said. “And I gather now
that you think it may be of some importance to me.”

“Yes,” Andrew returned. “As it is, I might
add, important to me. I have not told you for, frankly, I was not
certain how I felt about this little wrinkle myself.”

“And you have come to some kind of terms with
this as yet untold revelation?” St. James asked and Andrew could
see that despite himself, the duke was very puzzled.

“You are my half-brother, St. James. It seems
that the affair I spoke of that my mother had with your father in
fact produced me.”

St. James looked at him for a long moment and
his only indication that he understood what Andrew had said was a
slight cocking of his head. And Andrew felt his face redden a
little at this response, or lack of it. “Really, St. James, I did
not expect transports of joy from you, and I understand that you
will probably in no way know how you feel about such a circumstance
since I myself am only now coming to terms with it—”

But St. James cut him off with a tender word,
a small smile playing about his lips. “Whist, Andrew. I am only in
my mind bewail-ling the fact that my favorite pony has been dead
for some years.”

Andrew did not quite understand what his
words meant, but he understood that when St. James rose from his
chair with the help of his cane and turned to the window for a
moment that it was so Andrew could not see the extent of emotion
upon his face. Then St. James' voice came to him, low and once
again in control. “And as you have held this knowledge for a time
when I have not, perhaps you can guide me by telling me how you
yourself feel about this circumstance.”

Andrew went forward and his hand fell upon
St. James' shoulder and his voice was not as in control as his
brother's so that it came out sounding choked. “I am, myself,
feeling very blessed to find that I have a brother. If you yourself
think that there may come a day when you in fact would wish to call
me—”

But he didn't continue for St. James turned
and of mutual accord they embraced each other and they were both a
little relieved that there was no one in the room to see the two
remaining Larrimers clapping each other on the back and
surreptitiously wiping at damp eyes.

They pulled apart after a brief minute and
retreated selfconsciously from each other. Andrew began pacing
again and St. James returned to his chair, his damaged leg
stretched before him, giving him an indolent demeanor even when he
did not intend it.

“Damn, St. James,” Andrew said when he felt
as though his voice were normal again. “I wish I had told you that
before, for I feel as though I have just awakened from some manner
of nightmare.”

“You told me when it was the proper time,
Andrew,” St. James told him. “For there were too many questions in
your mind and I dare say part of you realized that we would never
truly be brothers unless we ourselves acknowledged it and you were
cautious of that state of affairs.”

“You are right of course. And indeed, the
last few days I have had some fear that you should balk at
acknowledging it yourself.”

“Never,” St. James said with sureness. “For
you have been a lot less misguided than I have been.”

Andrew let out a bitter laugh and paused in
his pacing to throw his brother a fierce look. “I have been
misguided my entire life it turns out, St. James. I never knew who
my father was for twenty-three years—”

But again he stopped for St. James' face
became pained and the frown between his eyes appeared as startling
as a storm cloud out of blue skies. He glanced up at Andrew's
abrupt halt in speech. “Neither, apparently, have I known who my
father was for twenty-three years, either, Andrew. But that will
have to wait.” And he smiled again as he focused on his brother
across from him. “You can not leave now, you know, Andrew, for I am
getting married this evening and I would not have my own brother
miss it.”

Andrew, taken a bit off stride by this
announcement, said faintly, “To Miss Murdock of course.” And then,
feeling very slow indeed, he accused, “You had put it off because
of my being here.”

“Yes. I did, Andrew. We both agreed that we
would not rub our happiness in your face when you needed us. And
quite frankly, I feared it would take something from our happiness
when we would surely feel that you were perfectly miserable while
we were saying our 'I do's'.”

“Devil take you, St. James,” Andrew growled.
“I know that you may have your doubts, but I really do not begrudge
your marrying her at all. I have come to realize that she would
have beaten me into submission within a week if she had accepted my
proposal.”

St. James gave a rude laugh. “And I assure
you, it was not with any thought that you would be jealous that we
held off on the ceremony. I was merely indicating that we realized
that you have been in a great deal of grief and that happy weddings
are not necessarily a welcome sight when one is feeling that
low.”

“Well you have been feeling as low yourself,”
Andrew pointed out. “Oh, you have done an admirable job of being
strong so that I could fall apart like some ninny, but I assure
you, I have not been unaware of the effort it has cost you, and
indeed I can not properly convey how much in your debt I am.”

“Do not speak of debt, Andrew,” St. James
warned, “for we will open up that whole discussion again, as to who
should pay and why. Let us just say that I did it with no hardship
and would do it again even if I had never learned you were my
brother. And I admit that I bent the rules slightly and availed
myself of some sustenance for I foresaw that none of this would be
easy. But that is a private matter and I shall not go into it. Just
let it rest that I have not been as entirely miserable as I should
have rightfully been or as you have been.”

Andrew gave him an odd look, but St. James
only added, “Stay for the wedding, Andrew, if you feel up to it,
for I should like very much for you to be there.”

“How did you know I was leaving today?”
Andrew asked, a little suspicious. “For I did not even realize it
myself until I rose from my bed this morning.”

And St. James colored in what Andrew almost
would have termed as a blush, but of course that was quite
impossible, St. James being St. James. “I confess, I have had a
minister on hand for days now. Ever since the waiting period was
fulfilled.”