“I’m not sure, since I haven’t had time to properly think on it.” She shook her head while shock lined her face. In the span of minutes, she’d gone from a vibrant, older woman to a pale shell of herself. “Andrew wrote that he wished to do his duty to the title and perhaps secure an heir, that he might as well have them both done in one fell swoop.” A shrug lifted her shoulders. “Yet in the next sentence he said he’d only just met this Sarah person. How can any of this be happening? And why did he think he should do this in secrecy?” Her voice had risen an octave, a definite indicator of her upset.
“It’s happened, Mother. Past tense.” Finn’s chest grew tight with a mélange of emotions, and he continued to pet Wellington in the hopes that his ire would fade. “Perhaps we shall discover the why of it with time.”
God help the poor woman who’d agreed to marry his brother. She was in for a tough battle, indeed, if not heartbreak, for Drew wasn’t fit to assume a husbandly role.
His mother stared at him with wide eyes full of disbelief. “But, he’s married and without any of us in attendance or having met her!” She wrung her hands. “Plus, there’s no indication that he intends to come up to London and introduce us.”
Out of necessity, Finn tuned his mother’s words out. Twin spears of anger and jealousy stabbed through him, both white-hot and tipped sharply as they pierced his soul. Of course his lauded older brother would do something enormously selfish like this for attention, for he always had to have everyone’s eyes on him—the perfect heir, the oldest son, the man not touched or scarred by war.
Wellington raised her head as his fingers tightened on her fur. She meowed, stretched out a long leg and rested a dainty paw on his belly. The only one who understood what Finn suffered with was a damned cat who couldn’t comfort him with words.
“Sorry, old girl,” he murmured to the creature who watched him with light blue eyes. He glanced at his mother, who had continued to speak but he didn’t hear her, his vision unseeing, as the knife of bitterness proceeded to gut him like a fish. Envy soon followed, and she twisted the knife deeper, for Finn would never have a fiancée, let alone marry. Who the hell would want him, paralyzed, and in a Bath chair for the rest of his days, to say nothing of the depression he constantly fought?
He gritted his teeth. One deuced lucky shot, one well-placed ball in his back had led to a spinal cord injury that had necessitated him being dragged off the field in embarrassment and excruciating pain, leaving him to watch helpless as his best friend was struck down not two minutes later.
The man he’d pledged to protect and bring home alive.
Memories of that day slammed into him. No matter that two years separated him from that battle, the recollections plagued him at inconvenient times. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and forehead. Cannon fire roared in his ears, along with the screams of dying men and horses. Acrid smoke filled his nostrils. The initial pain of the ball striking him ricocheted through his person.
Christ, but the memories—the nightmares—were beginning to haunt his waking hours instead of keeping confined to his sleep. Finn shook, his whole body shivering as he struggled to pull himself out of that time before depression could come for him next. Wellington’s bewhiskered face swam into view and he blinked, focusing on the cat. She stood on his lap, her front paws on his chest. When his gaze connected with hers, the feline meowed and licked the tip of his nose.
“Phineas, are you quite well?”
The sound of his mother’s voice and the concern therein yanked him away and temporarily scattered his thoughts. He glanced at her, disoriented, as he hugged the cat to his chest, but then finally, he nodded. “I’m all right. Merely lost in thought.” Another meow and then Wellington hopped from his lap to sit on his shoulder. She nuzzled his hair, the steady purr in his ear working to further put him at ease. With a shuddering sigh, Finn pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at his face. Damn, but he needed a distraction else he’d lose himself to the past.
And though he missed many aspects of that life, he didn’t wish to become trapped there.
“Good.” His mother nodded, but the worry didn’t leave her eyes, and that sent warm guilt scudding through his gut. “I’ve already had to let one son go as he battles with himself. I’d rather not lose another.”
“Of course,” Finn whispered, for who would ever think the depression in the mind of a returned and wounded soldier mattered? Not that he would burden her with his struggles. He shifted in his chair, for the pain from his life-altering wound—or at least the phantom pain therein—flared as it did when he overtaxed himself. His surgeon in London had prescribed laudanum, both for the pain and to help him sleep due to the nightmares. At times it was a godsend, but in other moments he felt it becoming a crutch, so he tried to take it sparingly. But that was the only comfort the man had for him.
She returned her attention to the letter. “I assumed Andrew might have asked my opinion, at least, before he did something rash.”
“Surely you jest.” Finn snorted. “He never has before.” When his mother folded the letter with her mouth set in a hard line, he stifled a sigh. Was she aggravated with him or Drew? “I’m sorry, Mother. Drew will have to live with the consequences of his actions.”
“What if she’s not right for him?”
A bitter laugh escaped before he could recall it. “No woman would be, but Sarah must have had her reasons to wed him.” He leaned over and touched her hand. Wellington protested the action and jumped to the floor. “Perhaps we’ll meet her soon.”
Then he’d give his brother a well-deserved dressing down for abandoning their mother. Finn was all she had at the moment, and the knowledge grated. I am not a damned companion, but that’s exactly what he felt like. With Drew in Derbyshire and Brand no doubt causing scandal God only knew where, no one gave a bloody fig to his well-being, or had even inquired about his health or plans for the future.
Perhaps they assumed he had none.
Why am I always wedged firmly in the middle and forgotten?
Another swath of resentment overcame him, and he narrowed his eyes as Wellington sauntered from the room. Hell, perhaps he should take out an advertisement for a companion for himself. A paid friend, since those were few and far between anymore. The men he’d known before the war—before his injury—had either died in battle or pretended not to know him now. But with a companion, he could travel, would always have someone to talk with or rely on when he couldn’t do things for himself. Summoning a footman every time he wished to traverse floors or manipulate a carriage was an embarrassment. To say nothing to general hygiene or personal needs. At times, he was prone to accidents and would soil his clothing… well, more like the bloody towel wrapped about his privates.
Another reason I don’t need to re-enter society.
Oh, God.Heat rose up the back of his neck. His hand tightened and crushed the stack of letters and invitations in his lap. Who cared that he might have had dreams or plans before he’d been injured? It no longer mattered that he’d wanted to retire to Hadleigh Hall in Derbyshire and run the estate, bring it to more modern standards of efficiency and profit. None of that was possible until Drew sorted himself, for they couldn’t reside at the same property together without inciting arguments.
And honestly, Finn was much too exhausted for that. He craved peace and a place of security he could call his own. Let life forget about him in the hopes he could finally forget too…
He frowned and shrank further into his chair. Away from London, society wouldn’t stare or whisper.
Or pity.
“I shall write to Drew and find out more of his plans. If he wishes to return and occupy this townhouse, it would be prudent for me to move out and give the newlyweds time alone.”