I remained there at the window, feeling even more nervous now that the reunion with Carrot was upon me. Then, as much to ease my mind as anything, I poured water from the ewer into the bowl and splashed my face and washed my hands. I thought for a moment of changing into other clothes, but I had brought too little clothing to be changing at the least excuse. When I had delayed as long as I dared, I left my room and walked down the stairs and into the dining room.
To my surprise, it was a small, intimate room lined with windows on one side and bookcases on the other three. Mr. Lincoln would have been proud. I strolled the length of one wall, gazing at the books and at the paintings above them. The cases rose only five feet or so from the floor, and above them were a series of lithographs and paintings: Columbus setting foot on the New World, a wonderfully engaging painting of Alexander at the Battle of the Granicus, and, not surprisingly, Turner’s rendition of the Battle of Trafalgar. I had been there only a few moments and was still gazing in astonishment at the books and the art when a maid brought in a plate of pork roast and potatoes and peas, which must have been quickly warmed up from last evening’s dinner. I sat down at the table, suddenly realizing how hungry I was.
I was just finishing when I heard a commotion in the reception hall right outside the dining room, and the door was flung open and Carrot appeared—older, of course, the ruddy complexion having faded somewhat, but the hair just as bright ginger as ever. “Jam!” he shouted, as if I were a mile away instead of just across the room. “Jam! At last!”
I rose and he strode forward, his arms outstretched to embrace me, and sudden tears came to my eyes as I stepped into his embrace. Then he leaned back, his eyes full upon my face. “My God,” he said, “it really is you, after all this time!”
“I’d have known you anywhere,” I said, at a loss for words, though indeed I would have known him anywhere and under any circumstances.
“But not I, you,” he said. “No, indeed. You were—what? ten? eleven?—when we last saw each other.”
“Twelve,” I said, a bit disappointed that he did not know my exact age, as I knew his.
“Twelve, yes, and now here we are! You’re a man now; no wonder you look so different!” He turned then, suddenly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I turned as well toward the door, fearing who it would be even before I saw him. “Rowland,” I said, trying not to register disappointment in my voice.
Rowland nodded wordlessly. He must have known I was to arrive. I wished at the moment that I had been similarly warned.
“And if two brothers were more completely different, I could not imagine it,” Carrot said.
There was a long silence, made more uncomfortable by the fact that Carrot still had one arm around my shoulders. Then I said, lamely, “I take after our father; he, our mother.”
Carrot’s hand slipped away from me as his mind moved on. “And what’s become of the women?” he asked Rowland.
“Oh, you know,” Rowland said, gesturing vaguely.
There are women guests as well? I wondered. And, suddenly, it occurred to me: Did Carrot have a wife? “You have a houseful,” I said.
“When has he not?” Rowland said, laughing.
“Not so many, actually,” Carrot said, “but it needn’t bother the two of us. We have much to talk about, have we not?” His hand was on my arm and he guided me out of the dining room, across the reception hall, and into a drawing room that was quite different from the rest of the house: swathed in deep reds and dark blues—a man’s room. He led me to a vast maroon leather chair and saw me settled in and then asked, “What will you have?”
I did not know exactly what I should say, so I said the safest: “Whatever you are having is fine.” I watched as he stepped to a side table and decanted an amber liquid into two glasses, and cocked his head at Rowland. At Rowland’s slight nod, he poured a third. I gazed at the two of them—good friends, no doubt of it—and a flood of resentment swept over me. I had desperately wanted to find my same old Carrot, my closest friend, but now it seemed Rowland had taken my place.
Carrot brought me a glass and, handing it to me, said, “A toast! To the three of us, united at last. Like brothers should be.”
I rose to the toast and lifted my glass to theirs, looking from Carrot to Rowland, and back to Carrot. Brothers, I thought.
Then, surprising me, Carrot turned to Rowland. “If you don’t mind, I would like a word or two with your brother.”
“Of course,” Rowland said, not turning red as I would have done if the circumstances had been reversed. He left us promptly, closing the door behind him.
“Jam!” Carrot said, once we were alone, laying his hand on my shoulder and searching my eyes. I smiled at him but felt somewhat at a loss, still. Carrot seemed to understand. “You are wondering what to call me, I imagine,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I responded, relieved that he had brought it up, as I had not had the slightest idea of how to approach the subject. He seemed so much exactly the same and at the same time so different that I hardly knew where I was to be in relation to him.
“Most people call me ‘my lord.’ Others call me ‘Lord Fitzcharles.’ My dearest friends call me ‘Fitzcharles,’ or ‘Thomas.’ I’m sure all of those seem strange to you, but there you are. Choose from them as you like, but, for your sake as well as mine, please do not call me ‘Carrot’ in company. I left that far behind at Black Hill. But, with the two of us…well, that’s different.”
“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
He stood staring at me a moment, until I added, “My lord.”
“Fitzcharles, perhaps,” he prompted with a grin.
“Fitzcharles,” I said. “Thank you for clarifying.”
“Jam,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind—or be hopelessly confused—if I still call you that: you have always seemed like the little brother I wished I’d had.”
“I’m flattered,” I responded, and in a way I was, though I would vastly have preferred to be called “Edward.” “Fitzcharles,” I added then, not yet used to the name. We left the room together, his hand on my back, and as we walked across the entrance hall I saw from the corner of my eye Rowland standing in the gallery at the top of the stairs, watching.
I cannot remember how I managed to get through that evening, for it was not at all as I had assumed, beginning of course with Rowland, whose appearance there was a sore disappointment to me. As well, I was uncomfortable with Carrot, since the name “Fitzcharles” meant nothing to me, and “Thomas” even less, and I was piqued at finding myself still labeled with the childish “Jam.”