Affair of Pretense

Twenty

Ian stirred some time later as the fire in the grate was already burning low and the library a little chilly. He woke up to a faint sweet smell and realized rather groggily that it was coming from the woollen drape that was wrapped around his shoulders. He sat up and looked about him. Realizing the lateness of the hour, his cousin must have gone up to bed but lent him her shawl for a little warmth. The gesture made him equally grateful and embarrassed. What a gudgeon he had been to doze off in a tête-à-tête he would have otherwise thoroughly enjoyed.

The sudden throbbing of his head made him wince. Upon reflection, he could not remember the last time he had slept so fitfully. It was altogether strange, for it's been a year now since the affliction started and through the course of this ordeal, there were times when all he could do was to stare in the ceiling until faint light from early dawn would stream through the window panes; or if he'd fallen, would only wake up, at some point in the night, to cold sweats and shortness of breaths. But it would have been on the rarest occasions that he could doze off without the fear of having his repose disturbed by nightmares.

Nobody in his family knew of this dreadful condition; and had it not been for his mother's wishes, he would have elected to rent a lodging as remotely as possible from Bruton Street. But he soon found himself, if not enjoying, at least contented within the confines of their home, and, as he had become increasingly aware, it was more so due to the fact that so lively a damsel as Georgie was around. Surprising even himself to have divulged what he had been painstakingly withheld, he found an empathic listener in her but did not dare to explain the extent of which it was consuming his life—or the normality thereof. He was far too proud to be casually talking about his unfit state; far too dignified to have someone take pity on him. Oddly enough, Georgie's solicitude and her lack of affectations had induced him to completely banish his prejudices.

He made a hearty yawn and rubbed his eyes, but a slight commotion coming from the hall outside made him glance to the door. He stood up and went out to discover what it was. A heavy frown descended upon his brows as he saw the footman, Jimmy, trying to assist his brother's swaying form. "Good God!" he ejaculated. Jimmy was startled but looked at him with a relieved expression. "'Tis Mr Collin, sir! Could not stand on his feet, I afeared!"

A loud hiccup escaped his younger brother, followed by an acerbic speech directed to the footman. "Dash it, man, I can—hic—very well stand! If you ain't—such a—hic—gudgeon you'd stop clinging to me! I could—hic—very well—manage from—h-here."

"Eh, yer as bosky as any sailor!" protested the harassed Jimmy, his one arm still supporting Mr Collin's shoulder. "I suspicioned you been a regular elbow-crooker these days sir, beggin' yer pardon for me sayin'! It would be troublesome if you be casting yer accounts hereabouts."

"I'm not going to vomit, confound your impudence!" said Mr Collin wrathfully.

"For the lord's sake, leave him be, man! I'm sure he could very well stand on his own!" Ian commanded the footman. "I'll take over from here." Thus peremptorily dismissed, Jimmy obliged and scurried away.

"That you—hic—Ian?" demanded Collin, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, chucklehead! What have you been up to now?" he demanded, following his brother's tremulous strides to the staircase.

"Oh! Been drinking—hic—you know."

"That much I could guess!" returned Ian drily. "You know you could never hold your cup very well and you don't like to be drunk by half! What maggot got into your head now? Are you in the suds?"

Collin gave another hiccup and shook his head vigorously. "N-No! I-It's the damn brandy! Hic—devilish stuff! Been pouring me all—hic—night! Berty told me not to touch it—should have listen to him. Wise, man, Berty. Always up to snuff!" Since he had the difficulty to ascend beyond the third stair, he hang on precariously over the bannister.