Better You Than I Read online

  “Art rode ahead,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask, thinking it might be better for them to see for themselves than have one of us attempt to explain it.

  “He is the bravest among us,” Athena says with a shrug.

  I refuse to look at her. She does not care. She does not feel. She prevented me from spending the last moments of my brother’s life with him. I do not care that none of us could have known.

  The coach finally stops. I can hear people murmuring. Uncle Pete opens the door. At first I am thankful it is not Dada or Papa I must face, but I see the cold fury in his gaze and all I wish to do is find one of my fathers so I might hide behind him.

  “He is dead,” I say stupidly, and the tears come again.

  Uncle Pete’s eyes narrow and he glares at each of us in turn. He stops on Athena and his anger seems to intensify. She backs into the cushions but holds his gaze.

  “Out,” he says. “Office.”

  We carefully climb out and find ourselves surrounded by almost everyone in the household except our parents and immediate family. The men have their hats pressed to their chests and the women have already been crying. Uncle Pete gently pulls Apollo’s body from the coach. The cloth over my brother’s face is dislodged, and the nearest people gasp at the sight of him. We follow Uncle Pete through the crowd and into the house, accompanied by a vast chorus of sobbing and muttered prayers. This is even louder inside, when the household servants crowding the foyer see my poor brother.

  Art and Aunt Chris are in the corridor near the office door, face to face and fiercely whispering. Art has been crying. Aunt Chris is furious. As we approach, Heinrich and Vincent, the butler, hurry to open the double doors to my father’s office.

  Aunt Chris steps in front of Uncle Pete. “Wait, we—” He silences her with a glare. She catches her breath and nods. She and Art follow us into the room and close the door.

  My mother begins to wail in shock when she sees Apollo, clutching at his dangling arm before Uncle Pete can even lay him on the desk. Maman stands behind her, tears falling, fingers lightly on Mama’s back, offering support.

  “He is dead?” Jamaica shrieks, apparently finally understanding why everyone in the house is gathered here.

  An arm closes around my shoulders and I turn and bury my face in Dada’s shoulder, almost nose to nose with Les on his other side.

  Papa is already behind the desk, his face the calm and emotionless physician’s mask he adopts whenever there is need for him in that role. Maman pulls my mother into her arms and back into a chair, whispering in her ear all the while. Mama finally turns away and sobs in Maman’s breast.

  Papa’s fingers dance lightly over Apollo’s body and he frowns. Uncle Pete is still standing across the desk from him. He leans in and whispers something and Papa’s head cocks like a dog confused at an unfamiliar sound. Uncle Pete points at Athena hurrying around the desk to her father’s side. She whispers in Papa’s ear and he sighs heavily and slumps to lean with both hands on the table, his expression one of relief. A strange suspicion tugs at me.

  Dada releases us and goes to the desk. Uncle Pete whispers something to him and Dada freezes in place for a moment before slowly turning to look at everyone in the room, each in turn. He gives me a small smile when his gaze meets mine, but it is quickly gone. Athena is hurrying from the room, slipping quietly out the door.

  Dada looks to Les and me. “What happened?”

  “He had a flash in the pan,” Les says, sobbing and pawing at his eyes and nose as he chokes out an explanation. “They were both so damn drunk. I didn’t think either of them could hit anything. I loaded the pistol and Greyson loaded his… It was good. They were good. Damn it. I don’t know why he got so drunk. I don’t think he was scared.”

  Dada comes to him and grasps his shoulders and peers in his face. “You did nothing wrong. Your brother owes you a great debt for this.”

  “He’ll never pay it,” Les sobs. “And I would not have it.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Dada says with a sad smile and wipes Les’s tears away with the sleeve of his shirt.

  Athena has returned. She hurries to her father’s side and hands him a vial. He looks at it before tossing it to Dada, who, after another reassuring pat on Les’s shoulder, goes to the sideboard, snatches up a decanter, and pours a healthy shot in a glass. He takes it to Jamie who is still wailing in Eliza’s arms. I no longer see the vial.

  “Drink this, sweetheart,” Dada says kindly. “Papa needs to look at the wound and I think that is a thing you should not see. So I want you to say good-bye to your brother and go upstairs.” Over her head he exchanges a meaningful look with Eliza, who nods understanding.

  “So he’s truly dead and Papa can’t fix him?” Jamie asks between gulps of liquor.

  “Yes,” Dada says and leads her to Apollo’s body. She doesn’t want to approach at first, but she finally works up the courage to touch his cheek. Apollo’s head lolls to the side and Jamie starts sobbing anew, but when Dada tries to guide her away, she pulls free and throws herself on Apollo’s chest to kiss his cheek and whisper something. Then she carefully pulls his head back upright. She lets Dada lead her back to Eliza and out the door.

  Once the door closes behind them, Dada crosses to kneel in front of Mama and whisper to her. Papa pulls open Apollo’s waistcoat, feels around, and fumbles with something at his shoulders. Athena hurries around the desk to assist him.

  “What?” Mama shrieks. “I’ll kill him!”

  Dada and Maman place hands over her mouth and attempt to calm her. Maman is almost as livid as Mama, but Dada is fighting laughter.

  Papa and Athena lift something off Apollo’s chest and hand it to Uncle Pete.

  “GoodPlan,” Uncle Pete says, examining the stiff, dull gray object in the firelight. “TheBastardHit’Im.”

  Art runs forward to look, and Uncle Pete turns the object over and points to a dent on the right side of the curved plate of steel.

  The metallic sound of the ball striking rings in my memory. I rush to the desk and peer—still unbelieving—at Apollo’s unmarred chest. I look at the blood on my gloves and his shirt.

  “Chicken blood,” Athena says quietly and retreats to the far side of the desk to stand with her father.

  I am stunned with relief: so much so that I am not even angry.

  Everyone is now close to the desk. Mama is touching Apollo’s face gently, placing her fingers beneath his nostrils, her face full of worry and wonder.

  “He’s alive?” Pike asks softly.

  Papa has been listening to Apollo’s chest using a cup. He nods. “Heartbeat is slow and steady. Athena drugged him.”

  Les looks as if he will crawl over Apollo to get to Athena. “Why?” he growls as Pike and I hold him back.

  “It was his plan,” Athena says, sounding more defensive than I have ever heard her.

  “But why?” Mama asks. “He could have just said…” She shakes her head.

  “Then we would have had to kill him,” Dada says quietly and grimaces when we turn to stare at him. He sighs and smiles. “Like this. A false death. It would be the only way to disinherit him. So now he is dead. There are witnesses. Everyone beyond those doors believes he is dead—or they will once the witnesses talk. I would guess these three were quite convincing.” He points at Les, Pike, and me.

  “Very,” Athena and Art say.

  Dada looks at me. “Congratulations, you are now the Viscount Marsdale.”

  “But I don’t want to be,” I say. “I… I know someone needs to be to keep this house and all we have and—”

  Dada comes and shakes me lightly, his eyes boring into mine. “No. No. It is all right. You do not have to do anything you do not want to do. I wish we had managed to convey that to your brother before…” He sighs and shakes his head. “This might work to our advantage, though. But that is not the issue. We did all this so we would have a safe place to raise all of you. And now, perhaps, it is time to find some new
way to live. Just as it is time for all of you to leave this den and make your way in the world.”

  I do not know whether I want that, either, but I cannot hold back time. I pull myself into his embrace.

  “I do not know what I want,” I whisper to him.

  “That is fine. We will talk later.”

  “You cannot leave. Yet,” Aunt Chris says. “We discovered that last month.”

  I pull away from Dada and see she is addressing him. He shakes his head. “I cannot leave, but we know our good King James will not long hold the throne. Even now, Monmouth is gathering men to his claim. And say Monmouth fails; James will still have no end of enemies—unless he denounces Catholicism. It is merely a matter of time.

  “When we discussed this last month, we decided we,” he gestures to indicate everyone, “cannot slip away in the night. Not if we wish to move our business holdings and coin—and of far more import, the possessions we truly value. But I think Apollo has done us a great favor. One of our children is dead. I can claim I do not feel the others safe here, and we can send them out into the world—with large sums of money and possessions to insure they are comfortable.”

  “I see where that works to the advantage of all,” Les says, carefully choosing his words, “but Pike and I wish to go to sea, and I’m not sure where Apollo—”

  “Hudson’s Bay,” Art interjects.

  Les shrugs and continues. “Be that as it may, I do not see where either of us will require a household; especially since Apollo is dead.”

  Dada snorts. “I did not say we were giving you the money or property. My intent is that your going forth in the world will give us the excuse to move our eggs from this basket.”

  “Ahh,” Les says.

  “The king will still cause trouble if we are overt,” Mama says. “You saw him last night: he is scared of his shadow.”

  “That’sWhy WeSend TheKidsAway,” Uncle Pete says and wraps an arm around Art’s shoulders affectionately. “Get’EmSafe. ApolloDidGood. Don’tKnowIf WeShouldTell ’ImThatThough.”

  Through the heavy curtains on the windows, I hear the clatter of a carriage arriving in the courtyard.

  “I’mGuessin’ThatBeStrikerAn’Sarah,” Uncle Pete says.

  Everyone looks at Apollo. Papa snatches up a fallen cloak and covers him.

  “How long before he wakes?” Dada asks.

  “I do not know,” Papa says. “Hours at least, but he may pass from the effects of the drug and into deep sleep at any time.”

  “And snore?” Dada asks.

  “If the Gods frown upon us,” Papa says with a smile.

  Uncle Pete has crossed the room to stand before Pike. Their gazes lock, and Pike nods at some unspoken thing and looks sad. Uncle Pete nods in response and turns to everyone. “ILove’ImStill, But’EDrinks TooDamnMuch.”

  “So we do not tell them?” Maman asks.

  “I agree with Pete. No, we do not,” Dada says. “We will discuss it later, as there are some who must be told; but, for now, no one who is not present at this moment is to know he lives. I will decide who is to know.”

  Everyone nods. I do not see doubt on any face. I had not considered this aspect of the matter. As usual, I am amazed at how quickly our parents make such grave decisions and act upon them. Dada and Papa decided Jamie could not be trusted with the matter before Dada even told my mother Apollo lived. Poor Jamie: I hope she can be told someday. Of course, then she will just be angry and feel betrayed.

  I catch Aunt Chris nodding understanding about something, and I follow her gaze to find Dada turning his attention from her to Pike. I swear the Gods have granted every adult in this family some strange ability to speak mind-to-mind without the need for sound.

  Dada clasps Pike’s shoulder. “I am sorry to ask you to carry such a burden.”

  Pike shakes his head vehemently. “You are not: Apollo is. And it is the same either way, and a thing of which I understand the need. I would not have any here—who are awake—think they lay it upon me, though.”

  We smile sadly as the doors are thrown open and Uncle Jim and Aunt Sarah sweep into the room with James, Henri, and the other five Striker boys. Uncle Liam—who had gone to inform their family—follows them in and closes the door. The newcomers’ gazes are momentarily pinned by the draped body, but they quickly break their reverie and turn to comfort the grieving. Aunt Sarah rushes to embrace Mama and Maman. Uncle Jim—possibly still sober due the earliness of the hour—goes to murmur in quiet commiseration with Uncle Pete, Papa, and Dada. Uncle Liam goes to talk quietly with Aunt Chris. And the pack of brothers follow James and Henri to join Les, Pike, and me near the desk.

  “What happened?” James asks.

  As Les explains—sadly and with much drama—about Apollo’s odd drunkenness and the flash in the pan he suffered, I surreptitiously watch Aunt Chris and Uncle Liam. She tells him quickly, and I can see the strain in his body as he forces himself not to look at Apollo’s sleeping form. I wonder who gets to tell Henri. He appears miserable. I have not received some instantaneously comprehendible direction from my father or the Gods on the matter, so I say nothing.

  The youngest Strikers, Francis and Gabriel, are creeping ever closer to the body. I prepare to shoo them away only to see them retreating before I can reach them. Athena is giving the boys a menacing eye from behind the desk. My gaze locks with hers, and a subtle change occurs in her features. I cannot read the expression, but it is for me alone and it does not appear hostile or malicious. Part of me, perhaps my reluctant Horse, beats away the flames of my earlier rage at her, and I am left with a smoky smoldering mess in which I know not my thoughts or emotions.

  Somehow, during the next hour, Uncle Pete and Papa move the body to a quieter and cooler room, and those of us who have been awake all night slip away and sleep, leaving the details of the funeral and mourning to the Gods and our parents.

  I wake to my father’s hand on my shoulder. The room is dark save for the banked fire on the hearth and a single lantern on the bedside. I smell soup, the lovely odor following me from my dreams into the waking world. Chuckling at my nose pulling me from beneath the covers, my father hands me a bowl. I pull my legs under me tailor-style and cradle it on my crossed shins. Dada adds wood to the fire and returns to sit at the foot of the bed, his back against the post. He is not wearing a wig, and his short-cropped hair stands on end. It looks the same as it always has in wavering light: I cannot see the gray that has replaced much of the blond. The light makes much of his wrinkles, though: gravening them deep around his mouth and eyes and across his brow.

  “Liam, Henri, and Eliza have been told. Theodore and Rucker will be upon their return on the morrow. Your brother still sleeps like one dead, but your Papa assures me it is not cause for alarm. The funeral will be held two days hence. I must go to court and make much of wanting young Bartleby’s arrest in the morning. Once your brother wakes, we will begin to work on the puzzle of how to spirit him away.”

  “We cannot use the company ships.” I say with a tone of query. I am not sure it is the correct assumption.

  “Yes,” Dada says. “As much as I trust Cudro and the Bard to keep our secrets, we cannot trust their crews. If there is even the slightest suspicion that your brother yet lives, there will be those who will overturn every stone in pursuit. I would rather err on the side of caution and have him take the long way to wherever he wishes as his final destination.”

  “He told me he wishes to go to the new northern colonies,” I say.

  Dada nods. “The Hudson’s Bay Company is poised to explore a new world in which a man could become lost. That land to the north is far larger and richer than anyone suspected. I recall seeing a Spanish map. They had only charted the southwestern corner of it; yet, that area was as large again as the Main, and there still appeared to be an area the breadth of the Caribbean between it and the Northern Sea.” He sounds wistful.

  “Do you want to see it?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Yes, that an
d more. I wish to travel again. There is a great deal of world to see.” He meets my gaze. “What do you wish to see?”

  Though I guessed the conversation would turn to me, I have no ready answer. “I want soup from our kitchens and private conversations with my father in my warm bedroom. My Horse wants to stay out of the rain.”

  He is nodding at my words. He smiles anew. “I think it would be difficult for you to understand how very much your words please me. I am delighted beyond measure that I have provided at least one of my children with a life he does not wish to leave.”

  I grin. “I do not think Apollo truly wishes to leave it, either; though he did say he feels the opportunity afforded by change is like a door opening, and his Horse wishes to run through it. Not from something, I feel, but toward new horizons.”

  “That is good to hear,” Dada says. “What makes your Horse want to run?”

  I recall more of my thoughts of yesterday. The things I think I should say and the ones I feel I should not. “I want a private audience with the dancing girls from last night’s fête so that I might draw them.”

  “I am sure that can be arranged,” Dada says. “So you do want to see more of the world: to draw and paint it?”

  I think of all the things I have heard or read about that I wish to see. “I might like to see famous buildings and artwork—like the ruins of Rome, or Michelangelo’s works, or the pyramids.”

  Dada nods thoughtfully. “I do not see why that cannot be arranged, either.” His gaze becomes speculative. “Who would you take with you?”

  “I suppose we cannot all go.”

  “Nay, not at this time. Perhaps someday. And a young man should travel the Continent with others of his age and interests.”

  Apollo wishes to go to the New World, and Pike and Les wish to go to sea. I am not sure what James wishes to do. I suppose there is Henri, though he does not share my interests. I have a few boys I might call friends, and I am sure their parents might be happy to send them off for a time, but…

  Dada is watching me patiently, peering into my head as I try to circle around the truth and ignore it.