Henry smiled at Jeremy, grateful to him for at least trying to take some of the heat out of the argument. Marianne and Freddy had always clashed.
Freddy stood abruptly. “I’m not hungry,” he announced. “I’ll get something to eat when I’m out.”
“Before you go,” Henry said. “Apologise to your sister, please.” His tone was quiet but unmistakably firm.
“But—”
“And Marianne,” Henry added, turning to his daughter. “You too. You are not blameless here.”
Marianne’s cheeks pinkened.
Henry merely waited, his gaze moving between them.
Freddy’s nostrils flared with temper, but at length he turned to Marianne and said stiffly, “I apologise.”
Marianne nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I do too.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. “Freddy, you may go now, but I wish to speak with you later, before dinner. Is that understood?”
Freddy nodded stiffly and strode out, closing the breakfast room door behind him sharply.
Into the silence, Marianne said, “He’s becoming quite impossible, Papa.”
Henry sighed. “It doesn’t help when you scold him, you know. You’re only a year and a half older. Of course he resents it.”
Marianne flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, “But I don’t want him to turn into a wastrel like that awful Percy Bartlett who—by the way, Papa—is at least five years older than Freddy.”
“He needs occupation,” Jeremy said quietly.
“I know,” Henry said wearily. He’d looked into a career in the church for Freddy—a well-trodden path for second sons—but Freddy had rejected the idea out of hand when he’d raised it.
“Perhaps,” Marianne said slowly, “you should consider buying him a commission.”
Henry’s gaze snapped to her and he said shortly, “What an absurd idea!”
Marianne met his look with a steady one of her own. “Papa, you know that’s all he’s ever wanted. His only ambition since he was a boy has been to have a military career.”
“It’s out of the question,” Henry said flatly.
“But Papa—”
“No, Marianne,” he said firmly. “My mind is made up.”
She pressed her lips together, shaking her head irritably. “You should unmake it, then,” she said. “At least give it some proper thought.”
But he had given it proper thought—far too much thought arguably. He’d lost a brother to the war, when Freddy was just a little boy. Philip had died in Portugal charging the French guns. A hero’s death, they’d said.
When Henry thought of Freddy in a cavalry officer’s uniform, his chest seized up with sheer terror.
“I’ll speak with him,” he said firmly. “And we will agree a way forward. I am sure.”
To his surprise, Marianne’s eyes filled with tears.
“Marianne!” he said, dismayed. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry I snapped at Freddy,” she said. “This baby has made me a harridan, just like Freddy said.”
Jeremy leaned forward and patted her arm. “Never a harridan,” he said loyally.
Marianne made a strangled noise that was part laugh, part cry. “A watering pot then. And a whale, probably, by the time the baby arrives, given how many sweet things I keep eating.”
Jeremy laughed softly. “Then you shall be the most beautiful whale in all England.”
She snorted through her tears. “You wretch!”
Henry smiled to see their affection. The lot of a parent was to worry, and he did so daily: over the prospect of Marianne giving birth, and Freddy’s nonsense, and George’s quiet melancholy. But this at least, this marriage, brought him comfort. He’d been acutely aware that his daughter’s happiness would depend on the character of her husband, and acutely relieved when she had selected Jeremy Fenwick. To see his daughter settled with a man who so obviously adored her was a blessing indeed.
Henry stood and walked round the table to where she sat, bending down to drop another kiss on top of her head, relishing the tiny gesture of affection even as he suppressed a pang of sadness at the knowledge she was growing further from him with each passing year.
“Don’t worry about Freddy,” he said gently.
She looked up at him then, her blue eyes very trusting, and he was reminded of when she was small and motherless and utterly dependent upon him.
A wave of love washed over him.
“Everything will be all right,” he said.
He hoped it was true.
Mercier’s was a pretty little place. When Henry and Marianne arrived, it was already bustling with custom.
A young woman in a black gown with a crisp white apron approached them, her hands folded at her waist.
“Good afternoon,” Henry said. “Do you have a table free?”
“We have one left,” the young woman replied, smiling. “If you don’t mind sitting in the corner?”