Cyril was a snake in the grass and Hugo had been a fool to have taken at face value the lie that his motivation in cheating and ruining his cousin was simply so he’d not be the one to accompany his father to India.
No, Cyril had always had his eye on the main chance. And with Hugo out of the way, he thought he could make a play for Charity. Not just because Charity was the girl Hugo loved but because Charity was pure and untainted by the grubbiness of life and there was some perverse streak in Cyril that made him want to sully whatever goodness came his way.
“Hot in the sun, eh?”
He’d not heard his uncle enter the room and he looked up with undisguised loathing as the older man removed his panama hat as he made for a cane chair.
Hugo stepped forward, brandishing the letter under his uncle’s nose as if it were a weapon.
“How many more of these have you kept from me?” he asked softly. It was not often his temper rose to the fore with such fire and fury. But he had to contain himself. His uncle had a mind that worked like his father’s. He enjoyed outbursts because he was in a position to quell them swiftly and effectively. He was physically stronger and he controlled the finances.
Hugo took stock, realising how much his own physique had changed compared to a year ago. Since the Christmas they’d left, age had diminished his uncle. His hair was thinning, and more white than gray as it had been when they’d arrived in this country. He seemed to have shrunk, physically.
Meanwhile, though Hugo was not exactly strapping, he was, without doubt, stronger, more powerful than his uncle. And he could feel the urge to use this newfound strength; to do violence, tingling in his fingertips.
But violence would achieve nothing. It was not going to give him the answers he demanded right now. His uncle was obdurate and wily. He liked to taunt and he’d taunt Hugo by withholding the information Hugo was so desperate for, unless Hugo played him just right.
Any suggestion that Hugo might resort to his recently acquired physical strength would be fatal.
Generally, Hugo had as little to do with his uncle as he could. They often spent their evenings apart, his uncle socialising with several chosen acquaintances nearby. Hugo could imagine it gave him secret pleasure each time the post was delivered, to withhold, or destroy, any correspondence addressed to his nephew.
But surely the time would come when it would be more satisfying to taunt Hugo with everything he’d had the power to deny him?
His uncle peered at the letter Hugo held out as if he were trying to place it.
“Ah yes, the writing. A very pretty, feminine hand. Extremely accomplished for such a creature, too.” He sent Hugo a benign smile.
“So, you knew who was writing to me.” Hugo tried to ignore the insult to Charity. “And you deliberately kept only her letters from me, I assume, since I’ve received the regular, expected missives from my father, exhorting me to do my duty. Yes, there’s been no shortage of the letters that crow about the company’s trading success, the recognition that’s finally coming your way, the hopes for an investiture becoming an increasing reality. Meanwhile, any comfort that may be coming my way is withheld as if I’m an errant schoolboy who can’t be trusted not to tarnish the precious reputation. Can’t be trusted not to give into his base impulses like you did, Uncle; and my father did, when you both could have married heiresses or aristocrats who’d have erased the taint of trade and elevated the family a notch or ten. I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
Septimus’s nostrils flared but he kept his temper. He was better at that than Hugo’s father. The less fiery brother, perhaps, but he enjoyed sticking the knife in. His methods of torture were more sophisticated for he had crafted subtlety to a degree Hugo’s father had not.
“And it’s the truth. Money is the currency that brings us the trappings of the good life but it’s the perception of good breeding that opens the real doors.” Septimus reached for the gin and tonic that had just been offered him on a tray by a servant, passing silently through the room, and indicated the room with a wave of his arm. “A little bit of discomfort brings a lifetime of rewards. Soon I’ll return to England with a healthy balance sheet to show for my efforts. Meanwhile, you will thank your father and I for curbing the impulses that are natural to a young man who believes himself in the throes of love. I was young once, believe it or not, and I believed that what I felt for Cyril’s mother was love. Of course it wasn’t. Your father made the same mistake I did.”
“I am not like you or my father.” God, how good it was to know it.
“You believe you are purer of heart and that elevates you above the rest of us. Yes, Hugo, I know that’s what you think. I know your sort. I don’t understand you but I know what’s good for you and you’ll thank me for it when your little obsession has run its course and you can choose a wife when you are no longer in the throes of calf love. A wife who will add worth to the family name.”
Hugo shook his head. “You had no right to keep Charity’s letters from me. Not when I did what was expected and accompanied you here for the sake of the company.”
“No, for your sake, Hugo.” Septimus stroked his moustache. “And if you want reassurance regarding Charity’s well-being, Cyril writes that he’s taking good care of her in your absence.”
Hugo stiffened but did not take the bait. He knew his uncle was lying. “Charity loathes Cyril. She knows he cheated me at the gaming table. She knows Cyril encouraged me to be a fool, to get drunk and to play deep, thinking I was securing my future when really it was my father’s plan to keep me financially dependent upon him for another two years.”
Septimus took a leisurely sip of his drink. “Cyril was persuaded to act in your best interests, Hugo.” He picked up the wedge of lemon and gave it a squeeze. “No need to sound so bitter. He was acting in all of our best interests, for you are decidedly better suited to doing what needs to be done for the business in this god-forsaken country than Cyril who, besides, was to come into his inheritance a good deal earlier than you. He’s far less reliable than you when it comes to sticking to his guns. Cyril takes his pleasure without being troubled by his conscience.” He took another sip then added, thoughtfully, “Though it seems it was his conscience that persuaded him to offer your young lady his protection in the absence of any other form of maintenance.”
“I’ve sent her all my wages,” Hugo muttered, turning away, sickened by the conversation. “She has no need of Cyril’s protection so stop pretending to me that my Charity isn’t as faithful as Homer’s Penelope.”
“My dear boy, your wages have been going straight into the Bank of India.” Septimus evinced surprise. “I thought you knew that. Or perhaps I neglected to tell you how assiduous your faithful manservant has been in keeping me informed of your state of mind. Yes, I know you wrote a letter of direction for a large portion to be directed to an account in London which I presumed could be accessed by your young lady but in your best interests I overrode this.” He patted his chest. “I couldn’t let matters of the heart blight your future. Of course, when you have reached your twenty-fifth birthday in a year’s time and are free to do as you wish with your grandfather’s inheritance, you’ll be able to supplement your new wealth with all your hard-won earnings.” He smiled. “You’ll even be able to go home and marry your young lady if you truly wish. If she’s waited that long for you.” Although his tone remained genial, his eyes hardened. “But you can rest assured that, in the meantime, Cyril has been looking after her with all the tender care you’d have lavished upon her, yourself, had you been there.” He raised his eyebrows. “No need to look so concerned, Hugo, my boy. I know the idea of giving or accepting charity can be hurtful to one’s notions of pride, and your sensibilities are highly developed. So, don’t regard it as charity. Cyril won’t be out of pocket for attending to her daily needs. I’m sure she’s paying for it in the only way she knows how.”
Instinctively, Hugo raised his arm. He wanted to belt his uncle so badly his whole body shook with the effort of resisting the impulse. But he had to drop his arm and close his eyes. He had to rein in his rage. It would not satisfy his screaming desire for vengeance, or ease his terrible fear.
He turned away.
How had Charity survived for seven months without a penny from Hugo? How could he blame her if she’d succumbed to Cyril’s advances? But again, how could he not forgive her for whatever she’d had to do to survive? In her letter, she’d told him how hard she’d tried to find work as a servant but that it was impossible without a reference from a current, respectable employer. She’d told him how relieved and grateful she was for the money he’d promised to send. And Hugo had taken comfort in the belief that, though small, the amounts he thought he was
sending her were keeping her safe until he got back.
He kept his eyes closed. The rage would not abate. His world was black, his ears full of the distress he had to hold tight.