"Of course." Georg chuckled. "Les femmes, eh?" He always used French when speaking about women.
Hart started after Beth down the gallery. His sister-in-law kept a swift pace, and Hart was striding fast by the time he reached the entrance to his wing of the house.
Beth made for Eleanor's bedchamber and walked in without knocking. Hart entered the chamber to see his wife sitting up in bed, a writing desk on the mattress next to her, a sheaf of papers surrounding her. Menus, Hart saw when he approached. And seating plans, and lists, so many lists.
Next year, Hart would rent a cottage in the middle of the Highlands for himself, Eleanor, and their new baby, and spend Christmas and New Year's in glorious privacy. No parties, no weeks of planning, no dining room full of too damned many people.
A futile dream, he knew. The entire staff of Kilmorgan Castle would follow them into the remote Highlands, never believing that Hart and Eleanor could look after themselves. Considering events of the past, they were probably right.
"No change?" Eleanor asked Beth.
Two pairs of blue eyes turned to Hart, one dark blue, Eleanor's cornflower. A double assault.
"Beth." Hart kept his voice gentle. "I have cabinet ministers and the Admiralty waiting for my report on armaments in Prussia."
"Not to worry," Eleanor said, before Beth could speak. "You rushing off after Beth over some domestic trouble will disarm Prince Georg admirably. He will relax and tell you everything. But I assure you, this is not a trivial matter. Beth came to me at once, which was the sensible thing to do. And, no, this is not about the cold supper for Boxing Day, although of course, I would value your opinion, as always, although . . ."
"Eleanor," Hart said sharply. Sometimes the only way to stop his wife was to talk over her. "Now that you two have brought me here, please let Beth tell me why."
Eleanor blinked. "Well, of course. Do carry on. Beth is frightfully worried about Ian."
"I think I upset him very much when I broke the bowl," Beth said, diving in before Eleanor could speak again. "He seemed all right for a few days, but now he's locked himself into one of the chambers in our wing and refuses to come out. He went in yesterday evening, came to bed very late, and then got up and went right back inside. He's not come out to eat, he'll not let anyone leave him food, he won't unlock the door. Curry says he used to do this sometimes, before I met him."
Alarm rose in Hart. Ian had on occasion locked himself away from his brothers and the world that bewildered him too much. He'd resist all attempts to make him come out, or even speak, although, he'd at least let Curry leave a tray of food outside the door. Even then, he wouldn't open the door until the hall was completely empty.
Hart tried to remain calm, logical. "All the doors in your wing have the same locks now. A key from any other door will open it."
Beth gave him an exasperated look. "This is Ian. He will have thought of that. He's bolted it from the inside."
Hart's alarm threatened to become panic. "Damnation."
"I'm sorry, Hart." Beth's eyes were red-rimmed. "I'm afraid I might have sent him into one of his muddles."
Ian hadn't had a breakdown for a long time. When he'd first come home from the asylum, he often degenerated into panicked tantrums, or he'd spend days without speaking to anyone. His body had been present, but his mind had not. Watching Ian stare straight ahead, refusing to look at Hart or respond to his words, had been heartbreaking.
The incidents had dwindled as Ian grew used to living at home and being around his brothers. They'd all but stopped after he'd met Beth, and they'd ceased altogether after he and Beth had moved into Ian's private house not far from here. The birth of Ian's children had relaxed him still more, a tension Ian had carried for so long easing away.
But Hart had never understood what had made Ian fly into his frustrated rages. Beth might be right, as much as Hart wanted her to be wrong.
Hart went to Eleanor and leaned to give her a brief embrace. She kissed his cheek, her scent and warmth lending him strength.
"Show me where he is," Hart said to Beth. "And send for Ainsley."
Chapter Eight
Ian heard the knocking on the door, but as though from far away. He was on his hands and knees behind a desk, working on a tricky bit. His fingers were steady as he set each object into place.
Vectors, momentum, resistance, acceleration, velocity--numbers and equations swam in his head, and he spoke softly to himself as he worked.
"The angle should be this, not this. A not B. Damn it."
He dropped one, which could have been a catastrophe, but he knew exactly where to pull another of line. Still cursing under his breath, he set the pieces in place again.
The knocking turned to banging. "Ian, open the door."
The stentorian tones of Hart came rolling through the wood. Ian paid no attention. Hart liked to tell the world what to do, but Ian had learned long ago how to ignore him.
"Ian." The shout turned to a roar.
Another rapid knock. "Come on, guv. You've got us worried something powerful."
Ian took another piece from the box and set it carefully into its place. Why, when a man wanted to retreat and do something useful, something interesting, did the entire family have to bluster their way in? Ian had learned to follow certain conventions so his brothers wouldn't worry too much about him--leaving a note when he slipped away for a few days to fish, for example, instead of simply disappearing.