Certified Man
God. Edward stifled laughter. Stephen hadn’t changed one bit. It had been years since he’d seen him, but Edward could still hear his voice, irrepressible as ever, always arguing, always winning, pushing everyone to the very brink of rage and then defusing the anger he’d aroused with a joke.
It was good to know that Edward’s father hadn’t managed to completely crush his spirit.
It was even more interesting that Miss Marshall had chosen to print this particular column.
He flipped to the next clipping, dated one week later.
Dear Man,
Is this column a joke? I cannot honestly tell.
Signed,
Another Man
Dear Other Man,
Why would you think my column a joke? A paper written by women, for women, and about women obviously needs a man to speak on its behalf. If it is a joke for men to speak on behalf of women, then our country, our laws, and our customs must all be jokes, too.
Surely you are not so unpatriotic as to suggest that, sir.
Yours in one-hundred-percent-certified seriousness,
Stephen Shaughnessy
Verified Man
Ah, he was going to enjoy reading these. Edward flipped to the next page. This would be an excellent way to pass the time while he waited.
Dear Man—
The door to the room opened. Edward’s pulse leapt—this was, after all, the second reason he had paid this visit—but he did not move. He sat in the chair that had once belonged to his father and waited.
“What is this?” The man in the doorway was just a silhouette, but his voice was achingly familiar. “How did you get in?”
Edward didn’t say anything. Instead he turned up the lamp, letting the light flood the room.
The other man simply frowned. “Who the devil are you?”
For a moment, Edward was taken by surprise. He’d been gone more than nine years, and he’d been thought dead for the last seven. But he had always assumed that his own brother would at least recognize him. They’d had their differences, more than most brothers did. The years that passed had severed any sickly bond that might have subsisted between them, leaving them to wobble away on their own separate paths. But until this moment, Edward hadn’t realized how physical those differences had become.
Once, they’d looked much alike. James Delacey had been a shorter, younger version of himself. James’s hair was still dark and glossy and his face was soft and smooth. By contrast, Edward’s once-dark hair was shot through with strands of white. His hands were all calluses; he suspected that the only skin on his brother’s hand that wasn’t soft was a little rough mark from holding a pen.
And then there was the fact that Edward had spent his last years at manual labor and had gained the shoulders to match.
James wore sober black. He was in mourning, Edward realized with surprise. Odd. Edward’s father had been lost to him years ago. For James, it had only been nine months.
“The last time I saw you,” Edward said gravely, “was on the London docks. You told me that it was for the best that I left and that you’d keep Wolf exercised until I changed my mind and was allowed back.”
Silence met this proclamation.
“Well?” Edward leaned back in the chair, affecting laziness. “It’s been almost a decade since then. How is my horse, James?”
James set his hand against the doorway as if to hold himself upright. “Ned?” His voice shook. “My God, Ned. I must be dreaming this. You’re not here.”
Edward grimaced. “How many times have I told you? I prefer Edward. For God’s sake, James, come in and shut the door.”
After a moment’s hesitation, James did just that. Of course he wouldn’t call the servants. Not now, not with a handful of months remaining. It had been six years and some eight months since last he’d written to his family. At the seven-year mark, James would officially inherit everything. He probably had the date marked with stars and rainbows on his calendar.
“Ned.” James stumbled forward, fell into a chair. He was shaking his head in confusion. “My God. You’re dead. We had a ceremony.” He looked up, his eyes dark with some unspoken emotion. “We sold your horse. I’m sorry.”
Of all the things his brother had to apologize for, selling an unused stallion seemed the most foolish.
James frowned. “We put up a monument, too, at some bloody expense. If you were going to turn up alive, could you not have done so in a respectable time?”
Edward could not help but smile. Yes, he had heard that correctly. His brother had just complained to him about the expense associated with his death.
“I just visited my grave,” Edward assured him. “The monument is lovely. I’m sure it was worth every penny.”