Page 91 of The Summer Country

My dear sir . . .

When the letter came from England in May, Charles knew it was too soon to be a reply to his petitions. He knew, but he tore it open eagerly anyway, cursing himself for disappointment when he saw that it was in Septimus’s hand, his old schoolfellow and one of his closest friends. It was a long letter, two sheets closely written and crossed.

Situated as you are, you won’t have heard about Hal. He died bravely, they say. . . .

Harold St. Aubyn. The heat and sounds of the plantation receded, jalousies gave way to shutters, the barking of the dogs to the cries of small boys. Hal had been his first friend at Eton, his champion, the one to stand against the bullies all too eager to debag the little West Indian whelp. Are his balls made of gold? they’d jeered. But Hal had come out of nowhere, taking Charles’s part.

Hal and Septimus and Arthur, his closest companions, his true brothers. He’d always assumed that no matter how far they all roamed, they would still be ready at a moment to come together again, connected by shared memories and ancient affection, present even in absence.

But Septimus was in Northumberland, trying to sort the finances of an estate he’d never expected to inherit and didn’t know how to run. Arthur had taken orders and was serving his flock somewhere in Cornwall, already engaged to the daughter of the local squire, growing fat on pasties and clotted cream. If they thought of Charles at all, it was in the same way, a part of their pasts, tinged with the exotic, sugar and rum and coconut trees.

And Hal, the best of them all, was dead, fighting the French in Portugal and Spain.

The waste of it all ate at him. How many like Hal were gone? How many lives lost? What had his last moments been like, in that strange and foreign country? He’d formed a connection with a Portuguese woman, Septimus wrote. His family hadn’t approved. Septimus had sent money to the woman, by a trusted intermediary. Money, Charles didn’t need to be told, that Septimus could ill afford to spare.

He would have to write and offer to make Septimus whole. He would write . . . and say what? That his heart was breaking? That he was about to have a child he couldn’t acknowledge, whose body could be broken or bartered by his own brother?

Maybe Hal was the lucky one, after all. At least he had died with honor, fighting to keep England free.

Free. The word was a mockery.

“Yes?” He’d asked not to be disturbed but the door had burst open, revealing Robert, disheveled and reeking of rum punch. “Robert?”

“I’ve had a son.” Robert swayed on his feet, catching at the cane back of a chair. “Hadn’t you better congratulate me?”

“Congratulations,” said Charles sincerely, or as sincerely as he could. He was still half at Eton, a boy again, chasing with Hal along pathways that existed only in his memory. “Isn’t it early?”

“Yes. But you’d never know it. The boy’s big. Strong.” Robert stumbled forward, resting both hands on the desk, crumpling Septimus’s letter. “His eyes are blue.”

It took Charles a moment to realize what he was getting at. “All babies’ eyes are blue! And even if they stay blue, Father’s eyes were blue. What color are Mary Anne’s eyes?”

Robert looked uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was simply that he was bilious. “They’re not blue,” he said belligerently.

They were gray, the same gray as Jenny’s, but Charles couldn’t say that. “They’re not black, either.”

“And how would you know that?” Robert was spoiling for a fight.

Charles couldn’t take it anymore. He rose to his feet, kicking back his chair. “Because she’s my neighbor. Because I have eyes.” Relenting a bit, he asked, “How is she?”

“Not good,” said Robert. “Nanny Bell’s with her. That maid of hers chased Dr. MacAndrews off, wouldn’t let him bleed her. Said there was enough blood already.”

“Shouldn’t you be with her?” Septimus’s letter. Mary Anne. Death compassed Charles about. He could hear it like a roaring in his ears, like waves coming to claim everyone around him. “She needs you. Your son needs you.”

Robert glowered at him. “If he’s my son.”

“I don’t believe your wife played you false,” Charles said shortly. “I can tell you for certain that she didn’t play you false with me. You have a choice, as I see it. You can let jealousy poison everything you touch, or you can welcome your son into the world and cherish him.”

Robert blinked at the onslaught of words. “And if he’s not my son?”

“He is,” said Charles. “But if he weren’t . . . who’s to say what makes a man himself? You’re Father’s son, but you’re not the least bit like him. In looks, yes. But not in spirit.”

“Mother had the raising of me.” Robert’s eyes narrowed and Charles could tell that what little ground he had gained was about to be lost. “Father was too busy writing letters and tupping Mother’s maid.”

Charles cut him off before he could revisit old slights. “There you have it. Whatever this boy’s blood—and I tell you now, it is yours—you can decide whether or not you want the raising of him, whether you want him to share your thoughts, your feelings. You can leave him entirely to your wife. Or you can go home and bend the knee and give thanks that you have a healthy baby in the cradle.”

He could feel his anger rising like flame, pure and hot, that Robert should have a child and deny him when all he wanted was the right to call his child his own.

What had Hal fought and died for if not this? The fundamental principles of England, a man’s right to his own hearth and home.