Mrs. Owens, his mother’s second nurse, was sitting outside the room knitting. She stood and curtsied as Rowles approached. “Aye, Your Grace. Your mother is well this morn.”
“Good, good.” He paused, tucking his hands behind his back. “Would you have tea sent up for us?”
Mrs. Owens blinked, then nodded. “You wish to have tea with yer mother? Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it directly.” She curtsied once more.
Rowles turned the brass knob on the door and took a deep breath. The room was dark, thick with warm and stagnant air that carried the tang of medicine. His clothes felt constricting, as if suffocating him as he made his way inside. Candles flickered, and the fire in the hearth cast its cheery glow on the otherwise silent room.
“Yes?” His mother’s voice was little more than a frog’s croak, as if rusty from disuse.
He cleared his throat delicately. “Hello, Mother.” Rowles spoke in a gentle tone as he approached her bedside.
“Son? Ah, come here, let me see my beautiful boy,” she whispered, and the rustling of bedcovers followed as she shifted.
Rowles stood beside the bed, his attention on the shadow of the woman his mother had once been. Her skin hung loosely over her limbs, and he noted she’d lost more weight. It was difficult to convince her to eat, her malady making her suspicious of all food, convinced it was poisoned. He’d asked one of his mother’s maids to taste the food in front of his mother before serving it, but that tactic must not be working as well as it had been last week.
He released a soft sigh of hopelessness, even as he continued to force a peaceful expression for his mother’s benefit.
“So beautiful, you were always such a beautiful boy.” She tried to smile, her dry lips stretching across her teeth.
“I take after my mother,” Rowles replied, grasping her hand and squeezing it gently.
“Where’s Rowles?” his mother asked suddenly, and looked behind him as if searching.
“Pardon?” Rowles gave a start, then eased out a slow breath. Ah. She had forgotten. Again.
“Robert, don’t tease your mother. It isn’t kind. Where’s that brother of yours? I’m worried about him.”
Rowles sighed, then decided to play along. As much as it grieved him, it wouldn’t be helpful to try to convince her that her son was gone forever. Who knew what episode such a revelation—again—could bring about!
“I’m sure he’s simply reading. You know how he can be.” Rowles shrugged, tucking his hands in his pockets like his brother used to do. A tight ache in his chest reminded him of how much he missed Robert.
“That boy.” His mother clicked her tongue as she gave her head a slow shake. Her mobcap went askew at the movement, revealing silver curls that had escaped their confines.
Her pewter eyes narrowed as she looked to Rowles, seeing him, yet not. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Rowles nodded. “Only if it’s a good secret,” he teased, using his brother’s words as he remembered them.
His mother only frowned further. “I think he might be a bit balmy.”
Rowles froze, then frowned at his mother’s words, rather the irony of them. “Say what, now?”
“Daft, addlepated, not quite right.” She sighed as if the long explanation was a great source of fatigue. “There’s something about him… Even when he was a boy, I worried. He’s not like you, Robert, so kind and handsome. His mind is too…overworked.” She closed her eyes and relaxed into her pillow. “Watch over him. And if he goes too far, you have my permission.” She nodded, then opened her eyes and speared him with an observant look that left his bones chilled.
“Permission?” Rowles asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer.
“Don’t look at me that way. It’s nothing we haven’t discussed before.” She waved a bony hand dismissively.
“Discussed what, exactly?” Rowles asked, his cravat itching his neck.
His mother blinked once, then twice. “If he’s as crazy as I think he might turn out to be, put him in Bedlam. Don’t worry, he won’t know the difference.” She sighed. “But we can’t have our family the laughingstock of theton. At least you’re the heir, Robert.” She chuckled. “Can you imagine if Rowles had been the heir? God help us.” She gave a dry laugh that changed into a cough.
“I’ll get your nurse,” Rowles whispered, his mind churning with the implications of her words, the irony of them and the pain as a result.
“She won’t care. They hate me, all of them,” she wheezed. “But mark my words, watch him, Robert. Watch him.”
Rowles didn’t respond, but backed away from his mother’s bed and started toward the door to get the nurse.
“Wait.”