Page 37
O liver was inside of his study when a knock alerted him.
"Enter."
The door opened to admit Theodore, who paused in the threshold as if measuring whether it was wise to step inside. He only observed his brother from a distance for a while until finally speaking up. He must have seen the frown on Oliver's face, which was more like a permanent feature now.
"I take it this is a bad time?"
"It's no worse than any other," Oliver closed the ledger and set it aside.
"That," Theodore said, coming fully into the room, "is a truly dismal answer."
"If you have something to say," Oliver murmured, "you might as well get on with it."
Oliver was not in the best of moods, that was certain. If anything, he had taken to drowning himself in work as to not think about Alethea and her departure.
"I came to see how you were," Theodore replied, unruffled. "And before you protest, yes, I know you will claim you are perfectly well. You always do."
"Because it happens to be true," Oliver said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Theodore studied him, his brows lifted just enough to suggest skepticism.
"You've been…withdrawn, brother," Theodore commented. "It is not normal for you to lock yourself up in your study like this for hours on end."
"I'm occupied," Oliver shrugged, not wanting to elaborate further.
"Brooding is not an occupation," Theodore said evenly.
"It can be," Oliver's mouth curved in the barest suggestion of a smile. "Is there something particular which you wish to speak to me about?"
"Can't a brother say hello?" Theodore challenged, but Oliver knew better that this was not the reason for his visit. He could see his brother's curiosity plastered plainly across his features.
Theodore glanced at the decanter on the sideboard but made no move to pour a drink.
"A brother can say hello anytime he wishes," Oliver conceded, "though knowing you, I know that this is not typical of you. Either you wish to demand something from me, or there is something that you wish to know that only I can tell you."
"I was thinking of them today. Mother and Father," Theodore started. Oliver's throat tightened, but he did not look away. It was odd for his brother to suddenly bring up the subject of their parents. It was a topic that they scarcely ever talked about.
"Were you?" Oliver responded in a hesitant voice.
"Yes." Theodore's gaze shifted to the painting that hung above the wall.
It had been commissioned especially for their parents.
Mother seated in her garden chair, Father standing beside her with a hand on her shoulder.
They had been painted that way the summer before Father died, and the portrait had watched over this room ever since.
"Can you believe that it has been so many years since their passing?" Theodore said, "I sometimes feel as though it was only yesterday that they were here with us."
Oliver drew a sharp breath. He could not agree with his brother. In earnest, it had felt like an entire life time had passed since their parents had passed.
"I do not think I agree," Oliver said, "If anything, it feels as though it's been an eternity."
"For you, yes," Theodore nodded. "I suppose it makes sense for you to feel that way, considering how you were the one who had to step up and fill their shoes."
It was a rare moment of acknowledgement from his younger brother. Usually, he refrained from making any sort of comments. If anything, his siblings took his parental role for granted. Which was not something that he resented, of course. It was just the way that things were.
"I can only hope that they would not have been appalled with the way that I turned out," Oliver admitted.
He had never really talked about it, but losing his parents meant that he had lost their guidance as well. Even though he had been there to take care of his siblings, no one had been there to take care of him.
"I don't think so," Theodore replied, surprising him. "They were too fond of you to ever be appalled. You, in particular, yes."
Oliver exhaled slowly, his hand resting against the edge of the desk.
"I doubt Father would have approved of everything I've done," Oliver admitted. In his mind, he held his Father to a high standard. One that felt impossible to fill, and he had thus spent his entire life trying to reach that level of perfection.
"No," Theodore agreed, "but he never expected perfection. You remember that, don't you?"
Oliver did not answer straightaway. His gaze lingered on their mother's serene face in the painting. She looked so at ease there, immortalized forever now in such a state. He liked to think that she was still in that state of calm now, wherever she might be.
"He did expect decency," he said finally.
"And you have never lacked that," Theodore went on. "I don't think you realize how much you are like him."
"I am nothing like him," Oliver replied. It was a surprise to him to hear his brother speak so candidly in his favor. The two had more of a relationship where they related to one another with humor and jest, but never did they outrightly praise one another like this.
It was a welcome surprise.
"You are," Theodore insisted, though his voice was quiet. "Not in every way, no one could be. But when you care for someone, you'd burn down the world before you let them come to harm. You think that's a flaw, but it was the best thing about him."
"He was better at it," Oliver's gaze fell to his hands.
"He had Mother," Theodore said simply. "That made all the difference."
The words hovered between them. Neither of them pretended not to hear the implication. Oliver pressed his palms flat against the desk, trying to conjure up an answer he did not have. Theodore let out a breath and moved to the chair opposite. He sat down, stretching his legs out.
"Do you remember," he said after a moment, "the evening before they left for Bath that last time?"
"She was fussing over his packing."
"Yes," Theodore said, a faint smile appearing. "She kept telling him he would forget his cufflinks. He pretended not to hear, so she scolded him for it. But she still tucked them into his case herself."
"I remember," Oliver murmured.
"She scolded because she loved him," Theodore said. "I think that is the part most people didn't understand. To them, it must have looked like she was forever correcting him. But it was her way of caring."
Oliver looked down at the dark surface of the desk. "He never seemed to mind."
"No," Theodore agreed. "Because he never doubted what was beneath it."
Theodore spoke again. "I think she loved that he never questioned it."
Oliver felt something in his chest tighten, an old, familiar ache he had never quite learned to be rid of.
"They were a good pair," he said, quietly.
"They were," Theodore said. "They didn't pretend to be anything they weren't. She was strong-willed. He was stubborn. But they were better together."
Oliver swallowed, wishing his throat did not feel so raw.
"They would have wanted that for you," Theodore added. "You now, a love that outlasts them. They have been gone for years now, and we are here still talking about their love."
"It isn't as simple as wanting," Oliver said, letting himself be earnest.
"I know." Theodore leaned back in the chair, studying him with clear eyes. "But it was never simple for them, either. They just chose each other anyway."
Oliver looked over at the portrait again. For once, he let himself remember it fully: his mother's laugh, his father's wry patience, the way their voices softened when they spoke each other's names. The ache was still there. But so, too, was something gentler.
"They would have liked her," he said suddenly. He did not have to say who.
"Yes," Theodore said, without hesitation. "They would."
Oliver did not trust himself to reply. Theodore rose and came around the desk. He rested his hand lightly on Oliver's shoulder.
"Do you ever wonder," Oliver began, his gaze fixed resolutely upon the grain of the wood table, "if there are parts of oneself that are simply unsuited to being loved?"
"I wonder many things," Theodore did not withdraw his hand. "But that has never been among them."
"Then you are more fortunate than I," Oliver admitted, a sad smile forming on his lips. He was never one to wallow, but in this moment, he realized that he needed a listening ear more than he thought.
It helped that Theodore had not pushed him any sort of a confession. If anything, he had been the opposite and gently let the conversation flow to that direction naturally.
"No need to be so hard on yourself, brother," Theodore said to him. But Oliver was not done yet with his confessions.
"I have tried to remain indifferent. To persuade myself that affection is something I might safely set aside. But she…" He paused, unable to look his brother in the eye. "She has a way of…slipping past my defenses."
"That is often how it happens, I think," A faint smile curved Theodore's mouth. It was as though he had been expecting to hear this all along.
"She makes a mockery of all my intentions," Oliver went on, his voice roughening. "I had resolved, quite sensibly, I believed, that I should never allow myself to need anyone in such a fashion. That if I never ventured so far, I might never find myself lacking."
"And has it worked?" Theodore asked mildly.
"No. It has failed spectacularly," Oliver said, allowing himself a moment of lighthearted laughter.
At that, Theodore's brows lifted, his expression softening into something near to sympathy.
"Then perhaps it was never a sensible resolution to begin with."
Oliver let out a long, ragged breath and lifted his gaze back to the painting of their parents that hung above them. In a strange way, it was providing him with the anchor that he needed to continue on.
"I cannot pretend that I know how to be the sort of man she deserves," he said quietly. "I do not know how to…trust in something so precarious as love. But God help me, I cannot pretend that I feel nothing for her."
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