“Why don’t you take a commission?” Katarina asked.
Harry turned to his mother, trying to read her face, trying to read her. She was always so maddeningly blank, as if the years had slowly washed away everything that had given her character, that had allowed her to feel. She had no opinions, his mother. She let life swirl around her, and she sat through it all, seemingly uninterested in any of it.
“I think you would like the army,” she said quietly, and he thought-Had she ever made such a pronouncement? Had she ever offered an opinion as to his future, his well-being?
Had she only been waiting for the right time?
She smiled the way she always did-with a tiny sigh, as if the effort was almost too much. “You would look splendid in blue.” And then she turned back to Anna. “Don’t you think?”
Harry opened his mouth, to say-well, to say something. As soon as he figured out what. He had not planned on the army. He was to go to university. He’d earned a spot at Pembroke College, in Oxford. He thought he might study Russian. He’d not used the language much since Grandmère had died. His mother spoke it, but they rarely had complete conversations in English, much less Russian.
Damn, but Harry missed his grandmother. She wasn’t always right, and she wasn’t even always nice, but she was entertaining. And she’d loved him.
What would she have wanted him to do? Harry wasn’t sure. She would certainly have approved of Harry going to university if it meant that he would spend his days immersed in Russian literature. But she’d also held the military in extremely high regard and had openly mocked Harry’s father for never serving his country.
Of course, she had openly mocked Harry’s father for any number of things.
“You should consider it, Harry,” Anna pronounced. “I am certain Sebastian would be grateful for your company.”
Harry shot a desperate look at Sebastian. Surely he would understand Harry’s distress. What were they thinking? That he might wish to make such a decision over tea? That he might bite into his biscuit, consider the matter for a brief moment and decide that yes, dark blue was a splendid color for a uniform.
But Sebastian just did that tiny one-shoulder shrug of his, the one that said: What can I say? The world is a foolish place.
Harry’s mother lifted her teacup to her lips, but if she took a sip, it was undetectable by the tilt of the china. And then, as her cup descended toward its saucer, she closed her eyes.
It was just a blink, really, just a slightly longer than normal blink, but Harry knew what it meant. She heard footsteps. His father’s footsteps. She always heard him before anyone else. Maybe it was the years of practice, of living in the same house, if not precisely in the same world. Her ability to pretend that her life was something other than it was had been developed right alongside her ability to anticipate her husband’s whereabouts at all possible moments.
It was far easier to ignore what one did not actually see.
“Anna!” Sir Lionel exclaimed, appearing in, and then leaning against, the doorway. “And Sebastian. What a fine surprise. How’re you doing, m’boy?”
“Very well, sir,” Sebastian replied.
Harry watched his father enter the room. It was hard to tell yet just how far along he was. His gait was not unsteady, but there was a certain swing to his arms that Harry did not like.
“S’good to see you, Harry,” Sir Lionel said, giving his son a brief tap on the arm before making his way to the credenza. “School’s done, then?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said.
Sir Lionel splashed something into a glass-Harry was too far away to determine precisely what-then turned to Sebastian with a sloppy grin. “How old r’ you, now, Sebastian?” he asked.
“Nineteen, sir.”
The same as Harry. They were only a month apart. He was always the same as Harry.
“Are you serving him tea, Katy?” Sir Lionel said to his wife. “What are you thinking? He’s a man now.”
“The tea is quite adequate, Father,” Harry said sharply.
Sir Lionel turned to him with a blink of surprise, almost as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Harry, m’boy. It’s good to see you.”
Harry’s lips tightened, then pressed together. “It is good to see you, too, Father.”
Sir Lionel took a hearty swallow of his drink. “Is the term finished, then?”
Harry gave a nod, along with his customary, “Yes, sir.”
Sir Lionel frowned, then drank again. “You’re done, though. Aren’t you? I received a notice from Pembroke College about your matriculation.” He frowned again, then blinked a few times, then shrugged. “Didn’t realize you’d applied.” And then, as an afterthought: “Well done.”
“I’m not going.”
The words emerged from Harry’s mouth in a quick tumble of surprise. What was he saying? Of course he was going to Pembroke College. It was what he’d wanted. What he’d always wanted. He liked studying. He liked books. He liked numbers. He liked sitting in a library, even when the sun was shining and Sebastian was yanking him out for rugby. (Sebastian always won this battle; there was little-enough sun in the south of England, and one really did have to get out when one could. Not to mention that Sebastian was fiendishly persuasive, about all things.)
There could not be a boy in England better suited for life at university. And yet-
“I’m joining the army.”
Again the words came forth, no conscious thought involved. Harry wondered what he was saying. He wondered why he was saying it.