Richard did not see Verity leave, but when his father called him to his office afterwards, he could tell by the sly smile on his face that she would not be coming back. With pride in his cunning, his father told him of the bargain.
"I take it you have some sympathy for the woman," he said to Richard, when Richard expressed no pleasure; indeed, barely succeeding in masking his revulsion. "It is perhaps best that you do. When the child is older, perhaps six or seven, you shall effect a reunion, and persuade her to grant its custody to us. Until then, she might as well raise it. She can do little harm in the early years, and it will not be useful until it is older."
"Then you struck a bargain with her, never intending to keep it?"
"Don't look so shocked. It was scandal enough having Neil's marriage annulled. This way, she will find it in her best interest to keep very quiet about the baby and its father. Perhaps we may even manage to keep anybody from finding out who its mother really is."
Richard watched in cold disgust and disbelief as his father sat down and began writing a letter. He had always known his father to be a rash and cruel man, but in his adoration of Verity, he conceived it impossible that anybody should treat her so ill as his father had. It gave him the spirit, for the first time in his life, to oppose his father to his face, and not just behind his back.
"I won't do it."
His father looked up from the letter. "What do you mean?"
"I won't take her child from her. We've taken enough already."
Slowly, his father laid down the pen. "You have grown arrogant and stupid of late," he said, rising from the chair. He circled the desk and looked down upon Richard. The threat of his bulk made Richard step back hastily. "Should I whip you like when you were a boy? You know there is nothing that matters more to me than the security of our family. Twice, you have challenged that security. The first, by hiding the fact that she was pregnant, and the second, by bringing her here to Neil. Here, the third. You insist you will not take her child. Let her raise the brat. Let one who carries the Armiger blood be raised to speak with a cockney accent, gamble for its living, and call a whore his mother. It is only the chivalrous thing to do!"
His voice rose steadily throughout his speech, and he stepped forward for every step Richard stepped back. Finally, the back of Richard's knees hit a chair, and he fell into it.
"I just mean to say that we cannot be so cruel," he pleaded. "She has lost so much already."
"Pah. And caused us to lose much too." Lord Albroke, seeing he had dominated his son, went back to his desk. "No. I have no pity for her. Now, I tell you, if you attempt to bring her to Neil again, or remind him of her presence, I shall punish you most severely. I doubt Neil will remember her visit, but if he does, you must tell him nothing further. Nothing at all. He is not to be reminded she exists."
His father's eyes were dark with anger, and Richard's rebellion faltered. No. He could not openly oppose his father. He had been dominated by his father's will for thirty-four years. It would take more than one argument and falling in love for him to break away from it so entirely, but the first crack in the bond had appeared.
"Yes, Sir," he said meekly, and left.
Outside his father's office, he had the impulse to take the carriage and warn Verity, but he knew it to be impossible. Any further contact with her now would certainly bring his father's wrath down upon them both if he found out. It was too dangerous. Instead, he went to Neil's room again. The nurse, who was waiting in the sitting room with her mending, gave Richard a suspicious glance.
"He's been very excited today. You know it's bad for him, My Lord. The lady who came – she was his mistress?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"She shouldn't ought have come. It's a pity about the baby, but he's in no position to be worrying about that kind of thing. It's best not to let him worry about anything."
"I thought perhaps he might be a little better for seeing her. They were very close. Perhaps it was a juvenile hope, but I thought she might even help him get better."
"I don't believe there is any getting better, My Lord. Mr Linfield says not to have hope, and in two weeks I've seen nought to give it. His body will not be able to survive the strain for long. And his mind – I believe it is gone long ago."
"No." Richard sighed. He could not, honestly, say that he loved his brother, but that did not mean he was not feeling the impact of the situation. He would rather Neil be alive and well than dead, and rather Neil be dead than in this quasi-life of foggy wakefulness and fitful dreams. "You may leave me with him. I shall not excite him again, and the woman has gone. She will not be back."
The nurse curtsied, and left to organize Neil's lunch. There was not much for her to do when Neil was dosed up on laudanum and camomile, as he had been after Verity's visit that morning.
But when Richard went into the bedroom, he could see that Neil was emerging from the stupor, leaning back on his pillows and staring dazedly out the window at the brightness of the sky.
"How do you feel?" Richard asked.
"I've been sick, haven't I?" Neil said wonderingly. He had said that same phrase to Richard at least five times in the past two weeks, each time it appearing to come as a revelation to him.
"Yes."
"I can hardly move my legs." He spoke slowly, every word visibly an effort. "My head hurts. What happened?"
"You were in an accident at sea. You've got to stay here until you're better." It was a dialogue Richard had down by rote. It hardly varied.
"Ah." Neil accepted it unquestioningly, settled back on the pillows, and half-shut his eyes.
Richard began to read, and for some time the only sound in the cold little room was the soft turning of the pages. He thought Neil had gone back to sleep. When the room grew too cold for his bad knee, he folded his book, and went to leave.
"Who was the girl?"
He stopped at the door. "The girl?"
"There was – a woman, wasn't she? She must have been a woman, not a girl, because she was having a baby." In his laudanum-dazed state, his mind worked with the slow, stumbling logic of a drunk man or a child.
"There was a woman." Richard examined Neil carefully. He did not seem particularly excited. He seemed only a little perplexed. "Yes. Do you remember her?"
"A little." Neil frowned. "Who was she?"
"Nobody important."
"Ahh." Neil began to smooth the blankets down over his legs. "What a pity."
Richard waited to see if Neil had any more questions, or remembered anything else, but Neil was only occupied in cocking his head and listening to the sounds of the lunch tray being brought through from the other room.
"I suppose it's barley soup again. What a pity."
* * *
-Not sure if he will. Nothing to do but wait, and hope if you dare. Women have always been better at that than men, but sometimes it's best not to be good at it. In cases like this where there isn't -
There was a woman, he thought vaguely, with green eyes, who was very good at waiting, but not very good at hoping. She did have green eyes, didn't she?
-I never thought he would be so delicate. One does not imagine one's younger brother passing before-
-You don't remember who I am?-
-She died. She died two years ago-
-Hold him down. He's having a fit-
-Ascolta mi, avvicinati, ascolta. Caro mio, ho solo poco tempo pìu-
-Non parlare così-
-Just a nightmare again. Hark how he screams-
-Ma non è il dire che lo faccia essere vero. Non avere paura di sentirlo. Sto morendo-
-Non parlare così, per favore, Giulietta, non crederlo-
He had been wrong after all. The woman had brown eyes, and they were closing softly, closing, never to reopen. Except – no! The eyes were opening as he watched. And they were not brown. They were green. Definitely green. And filled with tears.
"I'm tired, Neil. Let me sleep."
But she changed her mind the next minute, fickle wench. She threw herself in his arms and kissed him. And the brown eyes were forever closed, so they could not see the betrayal. If his arms were not so heavy, he might have pushed her off, but they were weighed down with invisible forces. He was as insubstantial as a whisper. She was heavy as iron. He tried to run from her, but she called him back.
"Neil."
There was a pleading look in her eyes that confused and frightened-
-"You can go back to sleep."
Richard was standing above him, leaning on his awful boar's head cane. It took time for Neil's eyes to focus properly, and for a few seconds all he saw was the winking brass eye of the ugly boar. He was sick of the phrase, "Go back to sleep." He had heard it so many times in the past -
He did not want to question that. He knew, somehow, that he had been sick for some time. He did not want to know for how long. But Richard was here, and he was back in his familiar bedroom, in Albroke Manor.
Giulia was dead.
It pained him, but did not shock him. He had woken up knowing it, today. Woken up knowing that it was today, and not yesterday, or nine years ago.
The light coming through the open windows told of a bright, warm day, but the room was cold somehow. His flesh prickled where it touched the air, and burned when he shifted beneath the sheets. He ached. His muscles felt nettle-stung and heavy.
What had been the dream?
Neil struggled to sit up, and looked around the drab, too familiar room. Richard was going back to his chair. The old woman was gone. And so was -
The young woman. Who had been in his dream. With the dark hair and green eyes.
Except, he puzzled out, resting his head against the bedhead, she was not just a figment of a dream. He was sure of that. There was a memory – that woman had kissed him.
"Who was she?" he demanded.
Richard looked up from his book. "You're awake – really, awake?"
"Yes," Neil snapped irritably. "There was a girl. Who was she? She was here – not long ago, just now, I think."
Slowly, Richard lowered the book to his knee, and let it fall closed. "Three days ago, a woman visited. Is that who you mean?"
Neil frowned, the motion making his head ache. Three days. Then she had been both memory and dream. "Yes. I suppose it must be. Who was she?"
"Her name is Miss Baker."
"No!" He kicked weakly at the sheets in frustration. "You are telling me nothing! She kissed me. I am sure I didn't dream that. Tell me, Richard... who was she to me?"
His brother hesitated. "You knew her a little. Some time ago. Before you were ill. How much do you remember of her?"
"That she kissed me!" She was a conundrum he could not solve. He knew that he had been ill, and that his memories had gotten out of order, but the woman appeared as an extreme aberration in his sense of the world. Another perplexing memory came to him: she was pregnant. With it came some faint shadow of guilt. "Richard..." Neil said softly. "I knew this woman – biblically?"
Richard bowed his head, but Neil could see his cheeks were pink. "You did not intend indecency."
"What did I intend?"
"I don't know."
"Then how do you know it was not indecent?"
For a moment, Richard faltered. "You should not be asking these questions – you will get excited."
"But I'm not excited." Indeed, Neil felt quiet and calm and in control of his faculties, if tired. He sorted the facts and had four: there had been a woman in this room; she had kissed him; they had been lovers; she was pregnant. He sat back and tried to tie the facts together in any way that made them fit. There did not seem to be a way. Information must have been missing. Logically, they added up to this: he had seduced the woman and abandoned her. But this was contrary to the logic of his character. It did not fit with his vision of himself as a man of honour and decency. Which he did concede might be wrong, as he did not seem to have a clear vision of anything these days.
"I've become a very bad sort of person," he said wryly. "You ought to have stopped me."
"You have done no wrong," Richard said firmly. "Don't be silly, Neil."
"I wish you'd tell me who she really was," Neil said petulantly, as a sudden ache of sleepiness overtook him, and he sank down into the pillows.
~~
A/N: Finally! Another Neil chapter, after about 10 chapters of no Neil. I missed him. Here is a translation of the Italian:
-Listen to me, come closer, listen. Darling, I don't have much more time.
-Don't talk like that.
- But it isn't the saying that makes it true. Don't be afraid to hear it. I am dying.
- Don't say such things, please, Giulietta, don't believe them.
Or at least, to be accurate, a translation of what I intended the Italian to mean. My Italian is better than my French -- I can order all 120 flavours of Gelati without resorting to English or pointing and gesturing, while in France I just starve and French cooks flee from my accent -- but my knowledge of grammar and naturalness of vocabulary and speech is pretty scant, and it is quite possible I have written something very, very unnatural. If someone speaks Italian better than me, please feel free to correct me in the comments.