21

A mind often forces a state of bliss when there is simply too much for it to handle at once. During the war, I’d come to embrace this state, rather than fear what might follow. So I didn’t leave Braemore straightaway. I would go on the day that was planned.

There was one thing left to paint: the folly. It stood proud and solitary on its hill, like a lighthouse watching over Castle Braemore and the surrounding estate. It was empty nearly all the time, unless someone needed a moment apart. There was nothing inside to make it suitable to live in, the room small and bare, the doors allowing drafts from every angle. At the same time, it was a sanctuary.

I set up my easel on the lawn, well back so I had the image of the hill itself and the folly on top. As I began, I wondered why indeed the folly was left alone. Who had ordered the structure? And for what purpose? Was it once enjoyed by many, or was it always just the slightest bit impractical? The earls of Wakeford did have an eye for frivolous pieces of architecture. But its placement must have been more calculated than the simple need to impress houseguests. Whoever had asked for it had a vision, had looked off the peak down to the heath and was moved to mark the place. Perhaps they only wanted an escape.

If I hadn’t known better, I would think Julian had ordered the building of the folly. But it was much, much older than he was.

Because he’d asked me not to paint it, I wouldn’t sell this piece; I wouldn’t show it to anyone. It was just for me. To remember them by.

I painted with thoughts of Julian. I reread all the signs that warned things would end this way. His story of the girl he’d lost, which had no ending. His unwillingness to heal for the sake of his family or me. Celia’s refusal to speak to him. I’d denied to myself that there was anything to see in them. Had it been my own fault?

Though I did love him. For better or for worse. I owed it to him to tell him that, and owed it to myself to make peace with it. I did wonder if he felt the same, but would never know.

A breeze blew the canvas, nearly taking it off the easel. I held tight until the burst faded again. It was an autumn gust. Early, but undeniable.

In the distance, a small voice, carried away on the breeze. I turned, surprised to see Anna hopping down the steps and across the pristine lawn, hair blowing out of her face. Now that I knew the truth, I better noticed the curve of her jaw, the slight hook of her nose, the roundness of her ears—all traces of Julian.

“Hullo, Bertie!” she called, red-faced. “I’m coming there!”

I cupped my hand over my eyes. “I didn’t see you arrive.”

Anna waited until she was at my side to answer, panting. “You were in the Music Room, and Mama said don’t bother you, but I got new crayons I want to show you.”

I looked up at the sky, threatening rain. I supposed there was nothing wrong with taking a break whilst the storm cleared. Anna helped me fold my easel, and followed me in to abandon it and the canvas in the Great Hall.

“My crayons are in here.” Anna took my hand, pulling me towards the drawing room. “I already drew three of our dogs, Spencer and Phoebus and Mortimer . . .”

Gwen’s voice spilled out through the cracked doors: “There is nothing to be done about it now. One of the men of this house must meet with the appraiser on Friday. End of.”

Roland’s strained voice came next. “I only learned we were selling yesterday. What good can I possibly do?”

“You can stand firmly beside the estate manager and nod along as the other man speaks.”

I stopped in the threshold, cheeks burning. We were about to walk in on a very private conversation. The Napiers stood in a triangle, Roland with hands on hips, Gwen with hands full of papers, and Celia flushed and fluttering. Freddie sat, looking wary as I was to be audience.

“No! No—” Roland shook his head. “Julian must come down.”

“And how do you expect we’ll manage that, hm?” Gwen perked her brow. “You at his head and Celia and me at either foot?”

Anna tucked herself behind me, startled by the unusually stern tones of voice.

“I’m certain he’ll see sense,” said Roland. “I’ll have a word with him myself.”

“Oh, you will? A change of heart, is it? After how many years?”

“I tried—”

“You gave in. Everyone gave in to him apart from me. However, I am not responsible for Castle Braemore any more than I am responsible for Lord Wakeford.”

“I handled things when he was away.”

“Yes, and you were made to grow up much too quickly, and I do apologize. But you’ve had your fun with your motors and your wine, and now you must be of use.”

Roland, who’d been standing still and rigid, came undone. “It isn’t mine, Guinevere! It was never meant to be mine!”

Celia had her free hand waving, fighting for an open second to throw her word in. She was holding something at her side, something flat and covered in black leather . . .

“You really ought to have a look at this, Gwen,” she said. “Please.”

“Quiet, Cece.” Gwen put up a silencing finger. “I’m not ready for you yet.”

“But it’s important, so long as Bertie is here. You must speak with him—”

Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose. “Cece, not this instant. Do sit down . . .”

Roland stepped between them, having grown a few inches. “I’ll go and speak to Julian now, all right? We have a few days to sort things.”

“You’ll not bother him today,” Gwen said. “He was poorly last afternoon and needs time to—” Her gaze came up and she spotted me in the doorway. I expected to be scorned, but she dropped her hands and sighed. “I told you to stay in the nursery! Where is Richie?”

Anna cowered behind me, but Gwen managed to reach around and fish her into the open without asking me to move.

“I only want to show Bertie my new crayons,” Anna said.

“Now is not the time, my love.” Gwen glanced quickly at me and back at her daughter. “Off you go upstairs to mind your brother. I’ll bring your crayons in a moment.”

Once Anna had gone, Celia folded her arms. “Should Bertie not be a part of this discussion?”

Roland scowled. “I hardly think it’s Bertie’s concern—”

“I’ve been looking all over for that.” I stepped further into the room, pointed at the book in Celia’s hand. She had her thumb between the pages, marking her place.

Gwen appeared at my shoulder, touching my arm. “Celia, why have you got Bertie’s sketchbook?”

“Cece’s been snooping.”

“Roland.” Celia rolled her eyes. “I haven’t been snooping. I found it at the folly and looked inside to see what it was.” She took the book in both hands and opened it wide. All eyes moved to the page—the drawing of Julian, naked in his bed.

When I looked up, I saw the first tears spill down Celia’s cheeks. They landed on the drawing, tiny, growing pools that spread the pencil markings and washed the lines into a blur. I found my anger dissolving and was unable to speak.

“He’s led you as he led her,” Celia said to me.

Beside her, Gwen shifted closer. “Celia, not here.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I know about Lily.”

Gwen looked to Roland, but his head was down. Celia closed the space between us as if we were the only two in the room, gaze surer than I’d ever seen it. “She loved him back, but that hardly matters, does it? Lily has died and Julian has lost all he ever was except the part of him that was too selfish to marry her.”

I shivered, unable to formulate a response. Celia had been looking after me all along.

Gwen was moving in again, putting herself between me and her sister. “Your brother has survived a war, Cece. I’m not certain you understand the gravity of that.”

Celia closed the sketchbook with a thump. “The war is over.”

“Not for him.”

“You’ve only ever seen his side.”

Gwen softened, reaching out, but Celia jerked away. “Julian explained things to you when you were a little girl. Now you’ve grown—you’re a woman. Can you not understand?”

Her breath shook as she pushed her words through a sob. “I can understand Julian seduced Lily only to dismiss her, and banished her to that wretched place to die.”

“Perhaps if you’d been the one to speak with Lily when she left,” Gwen said sternly, “perhaps if you’d been the one to write to her while she was in that wretched place—perhaps you’d defend him, too.”

“Oh, please!” Celia’s voice tightened and surged. “Julian ruined her!”

I felt unmoored, stomach churning, the room rocking over a raging sea. No longer was I just a bystander; no longer was I a painter searching for a muse. If I was, Gwen would not continue, but she did, filling in the spaces of the story she wasn’t aware that I knew. She wanted me to hear.

“He loved her,” Gwen said.

“But he led her all those years; he brought her to the folly. If he was a respectable man, he would have ended things or married her long before the war. She might still be alive!”

Gwen’s hand went to her head. “Heavens, you’re so young.”

“You disagree? You don’t believe he was at fault? You believe it was entirely Lily to blame?”

“Yes!” Gwen’s arms dropped to her sides. “Women who hope to keep their positions on the staffs of great houses do not open their legs to their employers.”

Celia’s eyes widened, struck by Gwen’s crudity. I was taken aback myself, feeling a newfound wash of shame crawl across my skin.

“How can you speak of her that way?” Celia asked.

“Julian did not force himself on Lily,” Gwen replied. “Lily disobeyed the terms of her employment, and because she could not have a baby under this roof, he—” She paused, checking her tone. “Julian took my advice and sent her away to give birth elsewhere, so if you’d like to place blame on someone, for God’s sake, do blame me.”

Celia did not waver. “It isn’t fair that the woman should be punished.”

“No! It isn’t. But that’s our lot, Cece!” Gwen took a long breath. “They oughtn’t have acted on their infatuation, that much is true. But in her place, can you say certainly that you would not do the same? For love? I can’t.”

A tear slipped down my cheek and I brushed it away.

Celia had no answer. Gwen was right—she was too young. She had been so sheltered, never so much as courting with a boy her age. Gwen’s admission was strong and sure, and I stood with her. For love, even as new a feeling as it was to me, I might have done all Lily did and more.

“I’m so sorry you’ve lost your dear friend, my girl,” said Gwen, “and I wish you had not had to endure so many years here on your own without the love you deserve. But the one other person who still mourns Lily so fervently is the one you refuse to see.”

Celia’s body suddenly shook in a sob. In two strides, Gwen was there, wrapping herself around her baby sister. Roland sat heavily beside Freddie, and they leaned into one another.

Gwen spoke with her chin resting against Celia’s temple. “You were always so much alike, you and Julian. It is of no great surprise to me that you were her two favorite people on this earth.” Celia buried her face deeper into Gwen’s neck. “You say Julian has lost all he was, but you forget this includes being your brother. That you may return to him.”

Celia sniffed. “He took her from me.”

“Lily was a woman, not an object to be passed about,” Gwen replied. “In the end, if she had lived, neither you nor Julian could have held her forever. But you still have one another.”

Celia wept as my sketchbook fell from her hands, pages down on the floor.

The room went upside down again, and I nearly lost my footing, holding a nearby chair to steady myself. Perhaps Julian had learned from his past after all. Then, he had not been strong enough to let Lily go before it was too late. But last night, he had asked me to leave him.

“Julian has no intentions of repeating his mistake.” My voice roused the room, turning heads. Celia did not look up, but held her breath momentarily. Gwen’s gaze widened. “He has asked me to go, and so I leave tomorrow.”

Roland stirred. “He has? What’s happened?”

Celia turned her head to see that my face was pale and drawn. I could not tell what she was thinking, but wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “He’s done it all again,” she said. “He’s had you to stay and be our friend only to turn you out again.”

Oh, the poor girl. I might have done more damage, trying to help her. Her loneliness was so great, so immense, it affected every thought in her head, rational or not.

“Cece . . . I was always going to leave at the end of summer.”

“I know,” she said, “but you might have been asked to return.”

Her words did their best to tug at my heart. She wasn’t thinking clearly, and neither was I, even as I let myself cry at the thought of leaving. The truth pained me, but we both needed to accept it.

“I’ve come here to paint only,” I said. “I’m sorry I have overstepped and have forgot my place, but I’m finished, so I must go h—”

A reverberating crack shook the still air.

My own wind left me, as if I’d been dealt a physical blow. As my heart thumped in my ears, I looked about for a cause. Celia broke away from Gwen, whose eyes went to the ceiling. The boys were on their feet. Freddie wobbled, and gripped Roland’s shoulder for support.

“Dear God,” he whispered. “That was . . .”

Gwen was off first, I at her heels.

I don’t remember crossing the Great Hall, climbing the stairs, turning the corner, or racing down the corridor. But I arrived somehow at Julian’s sitting room door, just in time to see Gwen dash to the next. I tried the knob. Locked.

Gwen didn’t look up when I appeared at her elbow in front of the bedroom door. She worked the knob—locked, too. She threw her shoulder into the solid wood, letting out a growl of frustration followed closely by a sob.

“Huxley—” she said breathlessly. “He’ll have a key. Run—Bertie, please!”

I nearly did, then pushed back on her arm. I could hardly speak through chattering teeth: “Your mother’s room.”

We ran at equal pace to the next door, holding up skirts. It opened easily to the dark and foreboding space. I kept my eyes front as we dashed through stale air to Julian’s bathroom, where I was hit with the stench of gunpowder. Gwen barreled past me, head whipping side to side to survey the room. In the threshold, I shuddered, swallowing back sick at the thought of what we might find.

I drew a shaking breath, then stepped through.

Gwen had climbed up on the bed beside Julian. He sat propped against the headboard, but his body was wrong, torso slumped to one side, head tipped to shoulder, jaw open. His face was violet pale, eyelid loosely shut. There was blood. A thin line running down his left temple, dewdrops on the pillows. His hand lay crumpled in his lap, slick with swollen burns.

I hadn’t the time to consider what had caused the bleeding, only that there was not enough of it. We had no doubt heard a gunshot, but an open skull would have drenched the bed entirely. Something had gone wrong.

“Julian!” Gwen cried, lifting him upright. She touched his cheek, smearing blood across his face. “Julian? Open your eyes! Look at me! Julian!”

Once the initial shock had been defused, the dormant half of me came awake.

I fumbled with the buttons of my cardigan, throwing it off. Kneeling on the bed, I cradled Julian’s head in my hand, the dead weight making me shudder. I pressed the wool to his wound. Blood came away, but still, not enough. The laceration was not terribly deep—he’d need to be stitched, but the skull wasn’t fractured. I pressed two fingers to Julian’s throat, feeling the carotid for a heartbeat. Slow, faint. But there. He’d merely fainted.

Having moved away for me to work, Gwen crumpled beside her brother, head in hands. Red smeared over her forehead and silk dress. I had never seen her undone, and it frightened me until I realized she thought he was dead.

“He’s breathing,” I said.

Gwen looked up, bleary-eyed. I took her hand, Julian’s blood sticky between our palms, and laid her fingers over his pulse. More tears spilled over her cheeks, streaking through red, and she covered her mouth to stifle a gasp.

I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, and heard myself whimper. With triage complete, I could remember myself. The nurse stepped back and the woman returned, the woman who loved Julian. Her breath shook as she realized the blood on her hands was his. That he had woken alone, had walked his room all morning alone. Had picked up a gun and set it to his own head. She shivered and hugged herself.

I tried to keep busy, searching for the weapon. It was fallen to pieces in the mess of linens: the German revolver. Something must have been wrong with the ammunition, for the cylinder was mangled, the frame bent upwards. Shards of metal and wood from the grip had come away. Julian had been hit by a mere shred of wayward debris.

With a pang of horror, I remembered the Veronal in the bathroom, and stood to check the bottle. But as I whirled, Gwen shouted: “Julian—!”

He had come round, blinking and whey faced, trembling bodily from the shock. Gwen bent to cradle her brother’s head in her lap, brushing his hair.

This was a strange man I didn’t recognize, small and curled in on himself. Stunned by the brightness of a life he’d expected to leave. I might’ve been invisible, though I wasn’t certain Julian was conscious of his sister, either, by the way he stared so blankly.

Why hadn’t I fought for him? Why had I let him push me away so easily?

I didn’t realize there was anyone else in the room until Celia screamed. She buried her head in Roland’s shoulder; he was paralyzed himself, pale and gasping.

“Telephone the doctor,” I said.

“Keep the children in the nursery,” Gwen put in, “and the staff downstairs.”

Freddie took the lead, moving Roland and Celia by their shoulders and out of the room. No stranger was he to such a scene.

Beside me, Gwen rocked Julian, dabbing his wound with her skirt, muttering: “What have you done, my boy? Hm? What have you done . . . ?” Julian’s eye fluttered shut. “Bloody fool! I was here, damn you! I was right—”

Gwen allowed a harrowing wail that she might have been holding in for years.

---

•   •   •

Before the doctor arrived, Gwen and I got to work stripping the bed. The bloodied sheets were hidden in the Countess Suite to be disposed of later on. The staff would never need know the truth of what had occured. Instead, we spun a story: Julian had slipped and hit his head in the bathroom. We could only hope the gunshot would not prompt any further questions.

It was nearly dark when I met the doctor as he was leaving Julian’s apartments. Something kept me on a bench in the corridor, unable to return to my bedroom, where everything was normal. He smiled kindly when I stood.

“Did he wake?” I asked.

“Only momentarily,” he said. “Frightfully muddled. I’ve given his lordship something to help him sleep through the night. Best thing for him now, I daresay.”

I nodded, gave a polite goodbye, and went inside.

The room was too warm, fire blazing, windows shut. Gwen sat on a chair at the bedside, hand clasped around Julian’s. He’d been undressed, and bandaged around the head, lying under a quilt brought from another room. The hand which had held the gun was thickly wrapped. Despite it all, he slept soundly, lips parted. His mask sat on the table beside him, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

“May I join you?” I asked, shutting the door.

Gwen offered a faint smile. “Come.”

I brought a chair and sat beside her. She held my hand in her other, making us into a short chain of arms.

My throat closed as I saw the man I loved resting in the place he had hoped to find an end. How unfair that it took this horrific day to make me realize he meant more to me than romance. Than marriage. Than a certain, bright future. Now I could imagine my life carrying on without him in it, and saw only grey. He was more to me than anything—he was my muse. My whole heart.

“I cannot decide if he has all the luck or none of it,” Gwen said.

I watched Julian’s chest rise and fall. I wanted to climb in beside him, to warm him with my body’s heat, to beg him to forgive me for my harsh words. To beg him to please, please never have such dark thoughts again.

“I knew,” Gwen went on, “that he didn’t wish to live, truly. But I never thought him capable of—” I squeezed her hand. “He told me once that he felt he shouldn’t have survived the blast, shouldn’t have come through it. I told him he was being ridiculous.” Gwen ran out of breath, and released my hand to press her fingers against her brow. “I don’t know what to do, my dear. I don’t know what to do.”

I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or to Julian, so I remained silent.

“What a bloody fool I was, to think I could repair him with chocolates and tea and . . . you.” My cheeks flamed. When Gwen put her other hand over mine, I knew it was not an accusation. “I wasn’t trying to use you, Bertie. I like you very much—I do. I think you were right for him . . .” A pause. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Julian came to me years ago, and without explaining, begged me not to allow Roland to make his mistakes. It took me ages to realize the mistake he spoke of was not Lily’s pregnancy. The mistake was taking my advice.

“He loved Lily for nearly a decade, and for all that time I told him endlessly to discontinue their friendship, that it was impossible for them to be together. I advised a marriage would ruin him, and the only thing was to sweep her pregnancy cleanly away . . . It was my fault he couldn’t allow himself to be happy. By the end of the war it was all so trivial—class and rank and duty. It meant nothing to me, when I’d lost so much, and nearly lost him.” Gwen took a nourishing breath and let it out sharply. “And here we are, ruined all the same.”

I was ready with a reply. For I had spent nearly the entire summer convincing myself otherwise. “You are not ruined. You have Anna and Richie, Roland has Freddie, and Celia has all of you looking after her. You have love.”

Gwen’s shoulders shrank as a notion brightened her eyes. “Do you still love him?”

This time the answer came easily. “I do.”

“He’ll make it right. I know he will—”

Right how? I wondered. Change his mind, ask me to stay? Propose marriage? No—it was not the time for such things, not any longer. He had to come back from where he’d gone; he’d have to decide to. I had been able to treat the physical wounds, but now I had to step away.

Julian did not believe in his ability to be husband or father, and though I thought he’d learn in time, he would not learn from me. He would learn from his family, the only ones who knew the boy in the postcard, and could remind him that boy was still alive.

I had my own life to live now. I had to choose myself this time.

I wiped a tear and told Gwen, “I must go home.”

A gentle knock put an end to our discussion. To my surprise it was not Roland, but Celia who came through. Gwen stood, as though to shield her sister from what she might see. But Celia came in, eyes red from crying.

“Will I wake him if I sit down?” she asked.

Gwen could only shake her head, astounded as I was. She stood and gestured to her empty chair. I watched Celia’s face as she took in the state of her brother, for the first time since before the war. There were many changes besides the scars on face and shoulder, the new wounds, the bandages. There were whiskers, long hair, years of aging.

Celia’s stoicism collapsed, and she cried in a way one does when completely alone. She clutched Julian’s hand against her cheek, glazing his knuckles with tears. I wished he was awake to feel it.

“Is he going to die?” Celia asked.

Gwen answered, “No, my dear.”

“But he wanted to?”

Gwen’s eyes shifted to mine. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but she must’ve found it. “Yes, he did. Your brother is unwell, but we are going to help him get better.”

Celia weaved her fingers into the spaces between Julian’s, grasping for some part of him to realize her. I was rapt, for a moment, at the image of brother and sister together at last. What a lovely portrait it might’ve been. Then I stood to leave, wanting to give them time alone.

Gwen caught my elbow. “Won’t you stay?”

“I want to be gone when he wakes.”

“He’ll blame himself . . .”

My stomach was heavy and solid. My heart broken. My knees weak. I might have slept for a week, or never again. “There’s nothing more I can do for him.”

After a long pause, Gwen gave a forfeiting nod and dropped my arm.

Before I went, I admired the sight of Julian one last time, remembering the smell of his hair, the taste of his shoulder, the roughness of his bare legs on my thighs. I remembered his words: Compassion and empathy.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they were my greatest gift.