Chapter Text
Cecilia Morville was as agog as her sisters when they heard that their cousin Drusilla had become engaged to an Earl. Drusilla had come over to have morning tea with her cousins, and in typical Drusilla-fashion, had failed to provide any useful information, beyond the fact that her fiancé was “very amiable” and “handsome.”
Sir James took snuff, and then gave his niece an encouraging look. “Tall chap, Cilla, ain’t he? Got that Frant height?”
“Yes, he’s really quite tall,” confirmed Drusilla. “And slender.”
“Hair colour!” said Rosamund, desperately. “You must tell us that!”
“Gold,” said Drusilla thoughtfully. “Blue eyes.”
“Cilla, this is like pulling teeth!” complained Eleanor.
“I don’t know how to explain St Erth,” Drusilla said, flushing slightly. “When he arrives you’ll understand.”
Sir James cleared his throat. “Very nice fellow—felicitate you and all that, Cilla—but he’s a dandy, if you ask me!”
“My dear—!” said Lady Morville. “You can’t say that.”
Drusilla nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “Of course Uncle James can, because it’s true.”
Lady Morville blinked and exchanged a disbelieving look with Cecilia. “Really?”
“Oh yes. It’s one of the many reasons why Papa objected to St Erth at first. Along with the fact he is an Earl, he is most definitely not a Republican, and he has a castle.” Drusilla gave a small smile. “Papa’s softened now. He told St Erth that he wasn’t such a jackanapes as he looked, and that he had some thoughts in his head.”
Sir James choked. “That’s about the highest compliment I’ve heard Hervey give anyone!”
Drusilla nodded equably. “St Erth is like that. You find that you like him without meaning to—” As the noise of an approaching carriage penetrated the Saloon windows, she broke off, sat up and her eyes sparkled.
Shortly afterwards, the butler brought two men into the Green Saloon. “Lord St Erth and Mr Martin Frant,” he announced.
Cecilia’s jaw dropped for a moment, until she recovered it. A beautiful golden-haired man walked into the room, wearing a superfine coat cut in the highest fashion. It took her a moment to notice the sulky-looking man behind him: by process of elimination, he was not Drusilla’s betrothed, as he was not dressed like a dandy, his hair and eyes were very dark, and he was not so much slender as gawky, with broad shoulders.
“Greetings.” St Erth bowed to Cecilia’s Papa. “How lovely to see you again, Sir James.”
“Felicitate you,” said Sir James, getting up and shaking St Erth’s hand. “Pleasure to welcome you to our family. How do you do?”
After Sir James had introduced everyone, St Erth sat next to Drusilla, and took her hand and kissed it. Martin rolled his eyes, took a free chair and sprawled in it, his lack of grace in stark contrast to St Erth’s. Cecilia wondered what their precise relationship was: was he, perhaps, a cousin?
“Cilla here was just telling us that you charmed Hervey, St Erth,” said Sir James. “Capital work!”
St Erth gave an impish smile. “I’m not so sure of that! He enjoys disliking me.”
Drusilla said briskly, “Don’t be ridiculous, Gervase.”
“Don’t think Drusilla’s Papa likes anyone?” said Martin.
“You might be right, Martin,” mused Drusilla. “Jack and I think he likes the concept of people, at least in theory, but in practice he finds them annoying, because they don’t do the things he thinks they should do theoretically, and it puts him all out of humour. Anyway, insofar as he likes anyone, Papa likes you, St Erth, mainly because you don’t humbug him.”
“Have you read Hervey’s books, then?” inquired Lady Morville of St Erth.
“Oh no, and I don’t intend to,” said St Erth, calmly. “My friend Lord Ulverston has read one of Cordelia Consett’s improving works while he was convalescing.”
“Poor Ulverston,” said Drusilla. “I can’t imagine he enjoyed it, although he did try to converse politely with me about it. I told him he needn’t bother.”
Martin snorted with laughter. “Why the devil did he read that?”
“There was apparently nothing else available,” said St Erth.
“I knew it!” said Drusilla with triumph. “He wouldn’t admit it to me, but I knew!”
“You are very wise,” said St Erth, smiling lovingly. “Shall we go for our walk?”
There was only room for four in the barouche, and so Cecilia accompanied them, but the glances from her sisters and mother amply indicated that they wanted to be fully apprised of the journey later.
On the ride to the park, Martin sought the advice of St Erth on a suitable tailor for hunting gear. Cecilia thought privately that this was a little rude: it was not a conversation she or Drusilla could participate in.
“Must we talk about this now?” said St Erth, gently. “I promise I will advise you in due course.”
“What’s the point of having a dandy for a brother if he can’t help you choose tailors?” Martin spread his hands, and grinned.
“Brothers?” Cecilia was surprised: the manner, mien and colouring of the two men was entirely different. “I thought you might be cousins.”
St Erth responded sedately. “We are half-brothers. My late mother was my father’s first wife. I believe I am the image of her, whereas I can confirm that Martin favours our mutual father.”
“Thought Mr Clowne was going to swoon when you first turned up, Gervase,” said Martin.
“Mr Clowne is the Chaplain at Stanyon,” Drusilla explained.
“Preachy bore of a man, but he keeps my mother busy, and listens to her.” Martin sighed and scowled.
When they reached Hyde Park, St Erth handed both Drusilla and Cecilia down from the carriage.
Martin jumped down in a loose-limbed fashion after them, and looked at his brother and Drusilla. “Suppose you two want to walk ahead?”
St Erth and Drusilla walked ahead, heads bent together, speaking quietly so that Cecilia could not hear them—her sisters would be disappointed—while Martin offered her an arm. They walked for some time in silence.
Eventually, given that Martin didn’t seem to want to start conversation, Cecilia said, “They are a very sweet couple, are they not?”
Martin made a face. Then he reddened and said, “I’m happy for Gervase and Drusilla! Think it’s an excellent thing they’re getting married; dashed pleased when I heard. It’s just—”
Cecilia stole a look at the saturnine countenance beside her. “One feels somewhat … envious?”
Martin sighed. “Yes, and then I feel like a bounder, because I didn’t react well to Gervase when he came back.”
“You’re not close to your brother, then?” Cecilia was confused about the brothers’ relationship.
“I didn’t know him at all, until he came back to take the title. Gervase’s grandmother brought him up, mostly. Until his return, I hadn’t seen him since I was ten or so.”
Cecilia blinked. “How peculiar! Why were you not brought up together?”
“Gervase’s mother ran off with a rake,” whispered Martin. “Then she died, and my father married my mother. My father packed Gervase off to Eton, and I didn’t really see much of him afterwards.”
“Goodness!” Cecilia blinked. “The poor fellow.”
Martin blinked back at her. “My father? No need to feel sorry for him.”
Cecilia’s poor impression of Martin was solidifying. “No, your brother. No mother, sent away by his father, not given a chance to know his brother—”
Martin pulled at his lip. “Hadn’t thought of it like that.” He glanced at Cecilia. “H’m. Drusilla went on this rant, after she broke her arm, about how we’d treated Gervase badly, and how lucky we were that he didn’t hold it against us, not like some other men might have done. My mother’s still shocked by it. But—maybe Drusilla’s right?”
“Drusilla generally is right. We really don’t know how she turned out so sensibly, with Uncle Hervey and Aunt Cordelia being as they are, but she says it caused her to be very practical, because someone in the family had to be.”
Martin waved his free arm. “You’re never to tell Drusilla I said this, but I find Mr Morville unnerving!”
“Uncle Hervey scares me a little too,” confessed Cecilia in a small voice. “Papa says there’s nothing to fear, really—that his bark is much worse than his bite—but it’s the way he glares through his spectacles!”
“Gervase don’t care a whit about Mr Morville! Ignored both Mr Morville and my mother in a glorious fashion, when they objected to the engagement! In fact, he dashed well carried Drusilla off down the corridor—”
Cecilia gave a squawk of laughter. “He did what—?”
“Well, poor Drusilla had broken her arm and dashed her head in. She was a bit wobbly when she stood, and my gudgeon of a brother would go make a cake of himself, and scoop her up, even though Ulverston and I were fit to burst about whether he’d reopen the wound in his shoulder—”
“I knew of the broken arm, but Aunt Cordelia and Drusilla have told us nothing of the carrying,” said Cecilia. “I will have to tell them off soundly.”
Martin grimaced. “Da—er, dash it. Don’t say anything.”
By this point Drusilla and St Erth had stopped. “Don’t say anything about what?” said Drusilla, suspiciously.
“Lord St Erth carrying you off in the face of Uncle Hervey’s protests—” To Cecilia’s utter delight, the couple blushed and looked at each other coyly.
Cecilia laughed with glee and clapped her hands. “Cilla, you always said you didn’t have a romantic bone in your body! How did this come about?”
“I still don’t, and I remain odiously practical, as I warned Gervase, but he would persist in addressing me, despite my warnings,” said Drusilla, primly. “I had no choice but to submit to his romantic actions, in my vulnerable state.”
“You told me once that you wished you could swoon!” St Erth’s blue eyes danced as he looked at Drusilla. “It transpires that you require a major head injury before you can accomplish it, my love, but there is a life goal completed—”
“Who the deuce has swooning as a life goal?” expostulated Martin.
“I did,” said Drusilla, “but I’ve removed it from my list, as it’s most unpleasant. I should be quite happy never to do it again. I daresay when ladies say they swoon, they don’t mean falling head-first down down a giant flight of stairs in a most undignified manner and breaking limbs?”
“No, you’re supposed to sink gently onto a fainting couch, fluttering your eyelashes,” said Cecilia. “Not that I’ve swooned either—I don’t think it’s a Morville trait.”
“Just as well,” said Martin.