The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding. Amanda McCabe
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on a table.
Curious, and not a little irritated that someone would break into his solitude uninvited, Harry tossed his hat and gloves on to the nearest canvas-covered table and strode towards the library.
The room was just as he had left it, half-empty and dusty, most of the books sold or packed away, but his brother, Charles, sat behind their father’s desk. His dark gold hair was over-long and mussed, his buff travel coat dusty and a half-empty brandy bottle sat before him.
He looked up and Harry saw that his blue eyes were rimmed with red. He remembered the last time he’d seen Charles, when his brother was leaving for the Continent. To paint, he said, but more likely to get away from their father. ‘My brother! The returning hero,’ Charles called, raising his almost empty glass. ‘Let me pour you a drink. You probably need it after meeting with old Mr Wall. That’s where Jenkins said you were, anyway.’
Harry sat down across from him, stretching his long legs before him. He had learned long ago not to wonder about Charles’s comings and goings. ‘I’ve just come from the tavern and it looks as if you’ve already started the celebrating.’
Charles examined his glass. ‘So I have. ’Tis the merry season, after all.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me. Where have you been lately, Charlie?’
‘Oh, here and there. Italy mostly. Then some German spa towns. Until I heard you were home.’
‘Not doing your art, then?’ Harry asked. Charles had always been a masterful artist, one who could be a professional in Harry’s uneducated opinion, though their father had scoffed at it all.
Charles frowned. ‘No, not really. Too busy with other matters.’
Harry nodded, but he said nothing. He didn’t really want to know what those ‘other matters’ were.
Charles poured them each another measure. ‘What did Wall say?’
Harry took a deep drink of the brandy. It was the last of their father’s stock and not bad at all as it burned down his throat. ‘About what you would expect he would say. Mother’s money was spent long ago and there are debts on the estate.’
Charles sighed. ‘I think there is only one solution, then, my dear brother.’
Harry laughed. ‘Sell Hilltop and go back in the army? They don’t want a one-eyed captain. Maybe you could get a job in the City?’
Charles shuddered. ‘Lud, no. How appalling. I could never have a job, and I certainly don’t want my brother nearly killed again.’
‘I’m glad you care.’ Harry thought of how it was when they were children, running together through the fields, jumping into the pond. And how far apart they were now.
‘’Course I do. You’re the only brother I have. And I don’t think we can sell Hilltop.’
‘Indeed not. Even if it weren’t entailed in the St George family, no one would want it.’
‘Exactly. Ghastly old pile.’
‘Then what is your solution?’
‘Very simple. You must marry an heiress,’ Charles said.
Harry laughed even harder. ‘You always did have a fine way with a joke, Charlie.’
Charles scowled. ‘I am absolutely serious. A lady, one with style and a fine dowry, would fix things in a trice.’
Harry shook his head. Even before he was wounded, his wooing skills had not been the greatest. To think of trying to win a fair, rich lady now—he laughed again. ‘Who would you suggest, then? Has a blind heiress come on to the market, perhaps? One who could tolerate a scarred old soldier?’
‘You’ve always been far more handsome than you would admit, Harry. And now you’re a wounded warrior. Ladies love that.’ Charles paused to stare down into his glass. ‘Helen Layton is recently widowed, you know. They say her husband left her well set-up indeed.’
Harry’s smile faded and he swallowed the last of his drink. ‘You know that was over long ago. I think you are the one who will have to find an heiress, Charlie. You always enjoyed society much more than me, anyway. You could take up painting again. Or you could go back to the Continent to look among the spas and casinos.’
‘I doubt we would have to go so far. This came while you were out.’ Charles slapped a letter down on the desk.
Harry gave it a suspicious glance. ‘What is it? Another dunning letter?’
‘Of course not. It’s an invitation to a Christmas house party at Barton Park. Jane says there will be several ladies there, old friends and new.’
‘Ah,’ Harry muttered, pushing aside his glass. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding. ‘So that’s what she meant.’
‘She?’
‘I saw Emma Marton in the village, she said something about Barton for the holiday. Thought it might be a good distraction.’ And it might, he thought through the slight haze of the brandy as he studied the crumbling plaster of the ceiling. Anything would be better than looking at this room any longer.
‘Well, I suppose somehow, some way, we have to try and save Hilltop,’ Charles said. ‘I know I’ve always been a useless wastrel, but...’
‘No,’ Harry said decisively. ‘I am the eldest and this is indeed our family’s home. We do have to save it and everyone who depends on it along with it. I will find a way.’ No matter what.
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