Page 79 of The Summer Country

“We’ve leased Harrow Plantation,” said Mr. Boland, as Robert refilled their glasses, clanking the ladle against the sides of the glasses and slopping punch on the floor. “It’s a temporary situation. The heir is in England and didn’t mind the extra income for a season. My health isn’t what it was. I’d like to see my wife well settled among friends.”

“Your health will recover,” said Mrs. Boland sternly.

“As my wife wills it,” said Mr. Boland with a grin. “I’d been meaning to speak to you, Mr. Davenant, about your sugar crop.”

Robert straightened, nearly overbalancing. “What about Beckles sugar?” he demanded.

“I’ve room enough on my ships for both,” said Mr. Boland genially.

Robert dropped the ladle beside the punch bowl. “Yes, but how much?”

Mr. Boland pretended not to hear, saying to Charles, “If you’ve time to go through your books when the holidays are over . . .”

“I’d be delighted to make time,” said Charles, looking uneasily at his brother. Mary Anne, he noticed, had still made no appearance. He was beginning to worry. “But if it’s numbers you’re interested in, I’ll have to direct you to Mr. Fenty. He’s the one who makes the books balance.”

“Splendid,” said Mr. Boland. “My wife and I will wait on you in the New Year.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Jonathan gruffly, and sounded, astonishingly, as though he meant it.

To Charles, Mr. Boland said confidingly, “My wife will have the business when I’m gone. And she’ll run it better than I, I wager. Like your Mr. Fenty, she’s the one who understands the numbers.”

“Women and Redlegs,” muttered Robert. He pushed up from his chair. “Will you pardon me? My lady wife appears to have gone missing.”

There was an emphasis on the word lady that Charles didn’t like.

“In her condition . . .” suggested Charles.

“Don’t speak to me of her condition!” Robert exploded, and stormed off toward the stairs, leaving Charles staring after him.

“There’s no one so anxious as an expectant father,” put in Mr. Boland, trying to ease the situation, but the words were punctuated by a fit of coughing that shook his diminished frame. He touched his handkerchief to his lips and tried to smile over it. “If there’s a quiet corner, I might just rest a moment, if I may.”

“Let me help you,” said Charles, jumping to his feet.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Boland, taking his arm without shame. “I’m not as steady on these old legs as I was. We’ll leave my Winifred and your Mr. Fenty to discuss pounds and pence.”

Mr. Boland kept up an inconsequential stream of chatter as Charles consulted with a maid and helped Mr. Boland up the stairs after her to a spare room, where he saw Mr. Boland settled on a bed with a glass of brandy by him.

“No, no, don’t worry about me,” Mr. Boland insisted. “Go back and join the party.”

Charles intended to do so, and would probably have done so had he not heard Robert’s voice, raised in anger, coming from behind a half-open door. “A fine hostess you are.”

A servant lurked nearby, ostensibly dusting. At the sight of Charles, she moved away, just as Mary Anne retorted, “Would you rather I cast up my accounts in front of our guests? It’s your child that’s done this to me.”

“Is it?” Robert’s voice was so low, Charles could hardly hear him.

“Is it what?” asked Mary Anne impatiently.

There was a crash, the sound of glass shattering. “Is it my child?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary Anne sounded more annoyed than alarmed. “Of course it’s your child! Whose else would it be?”

Charles came to an abrupt halt outside the door, unsure whether to stay or go.

“You tell me.” There was the sound of heels on wood as Robert paced the room. “You were awfully close with that brother of mine before we married. Charles this . . . Charles that . . .”

“That again?” said Mary Anne.

“Yes, that. Don’t you laugh—I know you’ve been laughing at me, you and my brother both—”