Will sucked in a long breath; his lungs tightened, and his chest began to shudder. Ben grabbed him and pulled him close. At first, he thought he was about to wrestle him, but then he realized that Ben was embracing him.
He sucked in another deep breath at his youngest brother’s kindness.
“It’s all right, you know,” Ben said softly. “If you want to cry, you can. You’ve been strong long enough. We don’t have to be so very English all the time.”
Will held on to Ben tight. “I know I can, scamp. I know I can with you if I want. I’m sorry for everything. You’re the best of brothers, Ben.” And he turned to Kit. “As are you.”
Kit yanked on his shirt, then joined the embrace.
And the three of them stood there, hugging each other, while people stared as if they’d lost all sense of propriety.
Will didn’t give a bloody damn. He didn’t care what other people thought anymore. He only cared about his brothers and Beatrice and Margaret, because the truth was, that’s all that was worth caring about. He did not have to suffer the same fate as his mother.
He did not have to be afraid, and he could take a chance, and perhaps he would be happy.
Just as his mother had made him promise to be.
It was certainly worth the risk, because he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life living like this.
But was it too late? He’d already shoved Beatrice out of his life. The things he said. She might never let him back in.
He grabbed Ben by the shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Thank you. Thank you for telling me exactly what I needed to hear.”
Ben’s eyes lit with hope. “I’ll do it every day for the rest of your life if you like. I don’t mind.”
“You’d better, brother,” he said, pulling him back into a hard hug. “I’ll need constant reminding. It’s too easy to slip into one’s old ways.”
“Now?” Ben asked. “Now that we’ve eschewed all that stoic nonsense, what the devil are you going to do? She’s heartbroken, Will.”
And she might never forgive him. Perhaps she shouldn’t.
Will bit down on the inside of his cheek, hating himself for hurting her. It was the one thing for which he could never forgive himself. But he had to try to make it right. It was time to make peace with his past.
…
Will stared at Sylvia.
The portrait of his mother hung in such pride of place. He’d put her there after his father had taken her down and put her in a back room with her face to the wall. He supposed it was because the old man had not been able to bear looking at her, a painful reminder of his failures.
But it also meant that Will and his brothers had not been able to look upon the glorious portrait by Gainsborough, either. And he’d felt the loss for years, until finally he’d become the next Duke of Blackheath.
After his father had sighed out his last breath, Will had brought the portrait back, and he had hung it up so that everyone could look upon it and know that he was not ashamed of her.
He’d never understood why she’d left, but something had happened to him in the last few days. He’d torn through the chests and boxes in the attics. He’d gone through every last box and every last desk drawer.
Driven.
Driven to find answers.
And he’d found them.
He’d found letters.
Stacks and stacks of letters bound with red ribbon.
The missives were between his father and mother. He had no idea how they’d all been brought together. Perhaps his father’s letters had been sent back on his wife’s death and his father had put them together.
Will had not been able to read them without breaking down. And it had felt like a great tide had picked him up and swept him out to sea. A sea of so much regret, but finally…understanding.