He gave the pail a tug, but his brother refused to yield it.
“A gentleman always cares for his cattle,” Benedict replied.
“Yes.” His brother had taught him that as soon as Sebastian had learned to ride. “But under the circumstances—”
“A gentleman always cares for his cattle,” Benedict repeated. “Good heavens, Sebastian. I never would have told you if I had known you were going to hover over me so.”
As if Sebastian wouldn’t have figured out something was wrong from the way his brother’s chest heaved. But he hadn’t come here to argue with his brother over water.
He folded his arms and watched his brother work the pump handle. Benedict’s strokes were uneven, his breathing labored; the water came out in uneven spurts, and when the pail was half-full, his brother stopped for a moment. He turned his head, coughed, and spat on the ground. Sebastian saw a hint of pink, and he clenched his fists.
“Here,” Sebastian said, “let me—”
“No.” Benedict didn’t even look at him. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”
Sebastian tried not to roll his eyes. “Of course you aren’t,” he replied sarcastically. “Pretend we’re children. You’re a knight, and I’m your squire. I’m just performing menial labor as a good squire should.” He tried to pull the pail from his brother’s grip again.
But Benedict refused to let go. “I’m not a knight,” he said through gritted teeth, “and we’re far too old for games of make-believe.” He yanked the handle away from Sebastian.
“I mean to go on as if nothing has changed. A gentleman has his dignity, after all.”
“Oh, dignity,” Sebastian said, with a levity that he did not feel. “By all means. Dignity above all.”
Benedict was ten years older than Sebastian. Their father had passed away before Sebastian could walk, so he’d played the role of father as often as he had brother. He flashed Sebastian a warning look—one Sebastian knew all too well. He’d seen it so often growing up. One time it had meant Don’t you dare bring that puppy home. On another occasion, it had meant Tell Mother how that vase broke, or I’ll do it for you.
Sebastian had never been easily cowed. He made a face at his brother—scrunched nose, wrinkled mouth. But when it came down to it, Sebastian had always told—about vases and puppies alike—and his heart wasn’t in it. Defiance was only amusing when the stakes were low.
Benedict took the bucket to the side yard, where a small stove sat against the wall. He stoked the fire, poured a portion of the water into a kettle, and waited. Sebastian followed behind, trying not to glower at him.
Benedict finally spoke. “If my heart gives out because I cannot bear the trivial weight of a saddle or a bucket of water, I will gladly count it my time to go.”
“Still not funny,” Sebastian muttered.
“Still not a joke.”
No. Benedict wouldn’t joke. He’d always been so sober, so direct. So easy to rile up, truth be told. He was the perfect brother: He worked hard, received high marks in school and higher praise for the evenness of his temper. Everyone respected him—including Sebastian. He was too good to hate. Perhaps that was why fate had decided to pull the cruelest trick on him.
“I’m going to die,” Benedict said matter-of-factly. “Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year.” He shrugged. “But then again, so might you. So might anyone.”
Sebastian opened his mouth to argue—and then shut it again. Convincing his brother to take the necessary precautions was a battle for another day; a day, perhaps, when a doctor was present, able to provide a rational, sober counterpoint. Today, he had something more important to discuss.
Benedict tapped the kettle, gauging the temperature.
Sebastian knelt beside his brother. “Look, Benedict. I want to talk to you about what will happen to Harry.”
“I told you already. There’s no need for you to worry about being saddled with the boy. I know how full your schedule is. He’ll go to his grandmother up in Northumberland. She’s agreed to take him.”
When Benedict had sat Sebastian down and told him what was going to happen, Sebastian had been too shocked to make sense of the news. It had all come too swiftly—the confession about his brother’s heart, the methodical way Benedict had gone about setting his affairs in order. Sebastian hadn’t been able to say a word in response, let alone a sentence in objection.
He’d felt every inch of the gulf that had opened between himself and his brother. He hadn’t even been able to say, “Don’t worry, Benedict. Violet does most of the work.”
“Harry’s seven,” Sebastian said quietly. “Mrs. Whiteland has visited once in his entire life and she was cross with him the entire visit. He scarcely knows her, and she doesn’t love him.”
His brother didn’t glance at him. “Maybe not, but I’m sure she’ll do her duty.”
“I should have him,” Sebastian said.
“You’re busy,” Benedict said. “With…”