Faces of the Wind

Chapter 8

The October gale growled outside Arthur Blackford's house and slapped against its large windows. The medium-sized house boasted some of the finest pieces of furniture and probably the warmest residents in Steventon. Many rooms, however, were closed most of the year after Arthur's two sons, Oscar and Brenton, had left to pursue their dreams in other parts of Britain, and his daughter, Lucinda, got married in Scotland. Arthur and his wife, Natalie, were left with only one daughter at home, Lydia.

"Are you sure there isn't a cure for your headaches?" Arthur asked his twin brother over tea and biscuits, "What did Dr. Broughton say?"

"He prescribed herbs imported from the Indies and lifestyle changes without the promise of a full recovery," Jeffrey replied, taking a gulp of his sweet tea, "but Dr. Tremour had a solution." He grinned and raised his brows as he said it.

It was easy to see the resemblance and know these two were no ordinary siblings. The two also had a strong build and were more handsome than their own sons. However, the family referred to Arthur as the good twin, while Jeffrey was the evil one. Though he was the spitting image of his twin brother, he looked more reserved and his salt and pepper hair and French beard gave him an air of wisdom. At the age of fifty-two, Jeffrey's hair was still mostly dark.

Arthur giggled. "I suppose he wanted to unleash his bloodsucking leeches and let them feed off your scalp?"

Jeffrey shook his head. "Trepanation," he said.

His brother's grin faltered and his gaze widened. "He cannot be serious!"

Jeffrey pursed his lips and nodded, still raising his brows. "If the cure were suggested for Adrian, he'd say Dr. Tremours hates him," he laughed, "he has a simple explanation for every complicated situation."

"Have you told him?"

"No," he paused a while and his mind wandered. He looked back at his brother's face and finally added, "I don't think he is ready to process this information."

Arthur gave his brother a knowing look.

"I did not spoil him," Jeffrey said.

Arthur took a sip of his sour tea. "I hadn't the intention to say that," he lied.

Jeffrey grunted. "I sent him to school even though he had a governess and never objected to his teacher flogging him every day. I made him spend weeks—even months—at Catherine's. She raised four remarkable men on her own but could not manage Adrian. What else was I supposed to do? He was always different and, though a bit difficult, smarter than most kids his age."

Arthur sighed and locked his fingers as his elbows rested on his chair's wooden arms. He stared blankly at his brother. "Your son, my dear brother, is not only difficult," he leaned forward and raised his brows, "he's a troubled soul."

Jeffrey's expression hardened and he opened his mouth to respond but Arthur blocked his attempt and continued to speak authoritatively. "Have you any idea why your son pursued Irene? I'll tell you," he said.

"I know it was selfish and ungentlemanly of him to trifle with her feelings and make her the subject of his masterpiece—"

"There isn't a masterpiece, Jeffrey!" Arthur interjected, his voice a tad louder, "He only developed an interest in her when he found that Richard was sweet on her. Have you asked him why they quarreled—or wrestled—that night at the Medleys'? Your son always wants what isn't his."

A deep frown puckered Jeffrey's forehead. "You don't know my Adrian." His voice was unwavering.

"Sometimes I think I know him better than you," Arthur said when Lydia animatedly ran into the parlour.