Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

She nodded jerkily. “Good night,” she said, rushing out the word. The tears were there, too close, and she didn’t want him to see them.

“Good night,” he said, but she’d managed to pull down her window before he finished. And then she ran to the bed, and buried her face in her pillow.

But she didn’t cry. Even though now she wanted to.

And she still didn’t know why.

Harry held the blanket close as he trudged back out of his office. He was no longer quite so cold, but he felt awful. His chest had an unsettling, hollow feeling to it, and it seemed to intensify with each breath, sliding up his throat, drawing his shoulders up into a tense, unyielding shrug.

It wasn’t cold, he realized. It was fear.

Prince Alexei had frightened Olivia today. Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he’d done or said, and he knew that she would minimize her feelings if he pressed further about them, but something untoward had occurred. And it would happen again, if the prince was allowed free rein.

Harry moved through the front hall, holding the blanket with his left hand while he used his right to rub the back of his neck. He needed to calm down. He needed to catch his breath and think straight. It would be up to the bath, and then into bed, where he could calmly assess the problem and-

His front door began to rattle.

His heart slammed in his chest, and his muscles leaped to readiness, every nerve suddenly poised for a fight. It was late. And he’d been out following mysterious Russians. And…

And he was an idiot. If someone was going to break into his house, he’d not use the bloody front door. Harry stalked over, turned the lock, and pulled it open.

Edward fell in.

Harry stared down at his younger brother with disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Harry?” Edward looked up and squinted, and Harry wanted to know who the hell else he was expecting.

“How much have you had to drink?” Harry demanded.

Edward tried to pull himself to his feet, but after a moment gave up and sat right in the center of the hall, blinking as if he weren’t quite sure how he’d got into the position. “What?”

If anything, Harry’s voice grew quieter. And more deadly. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Uhhhh…well…” Edward’s mouth moved, almost as if he were chewing his cud. He probably was, Harry thought with disgust.

“Don’t bother,” Harry said curtly. What did it matter how many drinks Edward had tossed back? It had been enough to render him senseless. The Lord only knew how he’d got himself home. He was no better than their father. The only difference was that Sir Lionel had confined most of his drunkenness to the home. Edward was making an ass of himself all over London.

“Get up,” Harry ordered.

Edward stared up at him, his face blank.

“Get. Up.”

“Why’re you so angry?” Edward muttered, reaching out for a hand. But Harry didn’t offer one, and so he struggled to his feet of his own accord, grabbing hold of a nearby table for balance.

Harry fought to keep hold of his temper. He wanted to grab Edward and shake and shake and bloody well scream that he was killing himself, that any day now he’d die the way Sir Lionel had, stupidly and alone.

His father had fallen out a window. He’d leaned too far out and broken his neck. On the table nearby, there had been a glass of wine and an empty bottle.

Or so he’d been told. Harry had been in Belgium. A letter had arrived from his father’s solicitor with the details.

From his mother he had heard nothing.

“Go to bed,” Harry said in a low voice.

Edward wobbled and smirked. “I don’t have to do what you say.”

“Fine then,” Harry spat. He’d had enough of this. It was like his father all over again, except now he could do something. He could say something. He didn’t have to stand there, helpless, and clean up someone else’s mess.

“Do what you want,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “Just don’t puke in my house.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Edward cried out, lurching forward and then grabbing the wall when he stumbled. “You’d like it if I left, so everything could be neat and tidy. You never wanted me.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re my brother.”

“You left. You left!” Edward nearly screamed.

Harry stared at him.

“You left me alone. With him. And her. And no one else. You knew Anne was leaving to get married. You knew I’d have no one.”

Harry shook his head. “You were leaving for school. You only had a few months before you would be gone. I made sure of it.”

“Oh, that was just-” Edward’s face contorted and his head moved about unsteadily, and for a moment Harry was sure he was going to vomit. But no, he was just trying to find the right word, the furious, sarcastic word.

And drunk as he was, he couldn’t do so.

“You didn’t…you didn’t even think.” Edward shook a finger at him, then shook it again. “What did you think would happen when he dropped me off?”

“You weren’t supposed to let him drop you off!”

“How was I supposed to know! I was twelve. Twelve!” Edward shouted.

Harry raced through his memory, trying to recall his good-byes. But he could remember almost nothing. He’d been so eager to get out, to leave it all behind. But he’d given advice to Edward, hadn’t he? He’d told him it would all be all right, that he would go to Hesslewhite, and not have to deal with their parents. And he’d told him not to let their father near the school, hadn’t he?

“He pissed in his pants,” Edward said. “On the first day. He fell asleep on my bed and pissed in his pants. I got him up and changed his clothes. But I didn’t have spare bedsheets. And everyone-” His voice choked, and Harry could see the terrified boy in his face, confused and alone.

“Everyone thought it was me,” Edward said. “Splendid way to start off, don’t you think?” He weaved a bit then, buoyed by bravado. “I was the most popular boy after that. Everyone wanted to be friends with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Edward shrugged, then he stumbled. Harry reached out and caught him this time. And then-he wasn’t sure how it happened, or why he did it-he pulled his brother close. Gave him a hug. Just a bit of one. Just for long enough to blink back the tears in his eyes.

“You need to get to bed,” Harry said, his voice hoarse.

Edward nodded, and he leaned on Harry as he helped him to the stairs. He did all right with the first two, but on the third he tripped.

“Thorry,” Edward mumbled, struggling to right himself.

He dropped his s’s. Just like their father.

Harry thought he might be sick.

It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t pretty, but eventually Harry managed to topple Edward into his bed, boots and all. He laid him carefully on his side with his mouth near the edge of the mattress, in case he threw up. And then he did something he’d never done, in all the years he’d maneuvered his father into a similar position.

He waited.

He stood by the door until Edward’s breathing was quiet and even, and then he stayed there for several minutes more.

Because people weren’t meant to be alone. And they weren’t meant to be scared. Or feel small. And they shouldn’t have to count how many times something bad happened, and they shouldn’t worry that it might happen again.

And as he stood there in the darkness, he realized what he had to do. Not just for Edward, but for Olivia. And maybe for himself, too.

By the following morning Olivia was feeling not quite so out of sorts. The light of day and a good night’s rest, it seemed, could do a great deal to restore the spirits, even if she hadn’t come to any grand conclusions.

Why I Was Crying Last Night

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Actually, I wasn’t crying.

But it seemed like it.

She decided to try it from a different angle.

Why I Wasn’t Crying Last Night

By Olivia Bevelstoke

She sighed. She had no idea.

But there was always denial. And so she resolved not to think about it, at least until she’d managed to get some breakfast. She was always more levelheaded on a full stomach.

She was halfway through her morning routine, trying to sit still while her maid pinned her hair, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter!” she called out, then murmured to Sally, “Did you order chocolate?”

Sally shook her head, and they both looked up as a maid entered, announcing that Sir Harry was waiting for her in the drawing room.

“At this time of the morning?” It was nearly ten, so hardly the crack of dawn, but still, unconscionably early for a gentleman to call.

“Shall I have Huntley tell him that you are unavailable?”

“No,” Olivia replied. Harry wouldn’t call so early without a good reason. “Please inform him that I shall be down straightaway.”

“But you haven’t had breakfast, my lady,” Sally said.

“I’m sure I won’t waste away for want of one breakfast.” Olivia lifted her chin, regarding her reflection in the mirror. Sally was working on something rather elaborate, involving braids, clips, and at least a dozen pins. “Perhaps something simpler this morning?”

Sally’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “We’re more than halfway done, I promise.”

But Olivia was already pulling out pins. “Just a little bun, I think. Nothing fancy.”

Sally sighed and started to adjust the coiffure. In about ten minutes Olivia was done and heading downstairs, trying to ignore the fact that the rush had meant that a lock of her hair had already fallen free and had to be tucked behind her ear. When she arrived at the drawing room, Sir Harry was seated all the way on the far side, at the small writing table by the window.