the innkeeper by name, paid for both his and Will’s pints, and then pulled a sheaf of paper from his coat pocket and placed it beside Will’s tankard.
“Here’s what I have.” Will started to page through it. “No,” Hartley said, snatching it back. “Don’t read it in front of me. Take it home, mark it up, and then next week I’ll make a fair copy.”
The first time Hartley visited, in an undisguised attempt to check up on his little brother, Will confessed to writing a play. He had started it in London and finished it while sitting up at night by Martin’s bed. When Hartley asked to read it, Will was too tired to object—besides, it wasn’t as if Hartley didn’t know that Will was given to overwrought sentiment. But when he came back the following week, Hartley only remarked that it would make a better comedy than tragedy, and had all but begged to try his hand at altering it. They had been passing the manuscript back and forth ever since, Hartley adding dark humor and Will refining the language. If all went as planned, they would offer it to a theater manager Will knew.
“How’s Martin?” Hartley asked carefully after their pints arrived.
“His fever hasn’t come back,” Will said, equally carefully.
“Good.” Hartley patted him awkwardly on the arm. By Hartley’s standards, this was a full embrace, almost mawkishly sentimental. Will didn’t think Hartley cared much whether Martin lived or died except for how his death would distress Will, so he supposed he ought to be touched by the effort his brother was making.
“How’s Sam?” Will asked, eager to change the subject. That set Hartley off on a lengthy monologue. It was almost unsettling to see Hartley this happy. He was actually smiling, an honest-to-god smile that showed teeth.
“I’m glad you’re happy, Hart.”
“Ugh.” Hartley scowled. “Spare me.”
Will hid a grin in his tankard.
“I wouldn’t exactly hate it if you were happy, too, you know,” Hartley went on. “And I can’t help but feel that holing up in this godforsaken place with Martin Easterbrook—”
“Hush. We’re not using that name.”
“—is not exactly a path toward contentment.”
Will took a long pull of his pint. “I couldn’t be content knowing that he was alone. You know that.”
“Hmm.” Hartley regarded him appraisingly. “I wonder if I do.”
“I’m trying to get him well. That’s all. Then he can . . .” Will’s voice trailed off.
“Mmm? What can he do then? Harass tenants? Run away from his aunt’s house in order to haunt my attics? What grand plans will Martin return to?”
“A person doesn’t need plans to make their life worthwhile.”
Hartley’s expression softened. “As much as it pains me to say this, it’s probably for the best that he’s with you. You seem to be the only friend he has. His aunt hasn’t exactly been tearing up the country looking for him.”
Will felt his face heat in anger and something else. “You talk about him like he’s a stray dog in need of care. He’s my friend and I hate that I’m all he has,” he said, because that was the thing that saddened him the most.
“You might want to consider why that is,” Hartley remarked, taking a sip of ale.
“Why I care for him?”
“Why nobody else does.”
“His father cut him off from all society,” Will said. “And now he’s prickly and distrustful. He’s so used to being alone that he deliberately alienates anybody who might be fond of him. He’s been doing that all our lives.” Will didn’t add that Martin also seemed to be punishing himself—it seemed both too private and too confusing for Will to articulate.
“Believe me, I recall,” Hartley said tartly. “Then maybe answer the other question. Why do you care for him when he manifestly does not want to be cared for?”
Sometimes it was a little heartbreaking that Hartley needed these things explained to him. “Because he’s my friend,” Will said. That was true, he supposed, for all it was a radical simplification. He didn’t really think anybody could explain the whys and wherefores of friendship. Either you cared for somebody, or you didn’t, and there wasn’t much sense trying to make sense of it. Will and Martin had been friends since Will knew what the word meant, and it wasn’t as if he could just undo that, nor did he want to. “And also,” he added, sensing that Hartley needed this spelled out for him, “he’s only in his current situation—poor, alone, etcetera—because of his arsehole father. He never had a