He decided to sit with Wilmot for a time, even if he was not yet awake, and headed in that direction.
He found Mr. Leary in search of him.
“Your Grace,” the physician bowed, “Lord Wilmot is awake now. I am on my way to get a servant to bring him food. He must eat in order to recover his strength.”
“Good. I want to talk to him if you think it will not harm him.”
“Of course not. I will return to look in on him in a few hours.”
Nodding at the man’s respectful bow, Maximilian continued to Wilmot’s chambers and went inside. After ordering Wilmot’s valet to leave the two of them alone for a while, he stepped quietly to Wilmot’s bedside. The bedchamber stood in near darkness, only a single lamp with its wick turned low burned on a nearby table. His brother lay with his eyes closed as though sleeping, but they opened as Maximilian sat in the chair beside him. His arm, wrapped in a white bandage, lay across his stomach.
“How are you feeling, brother?” Maximilian asked.
“Tired… groggy.... stupid.”
Maximilian smiled a little. “Are you in pain?”
“Not so much. Why are you here, Max?”
His smiled widened at the childhood nickname. “Can I not come see the brother I almost lost today? I am worried about you, Willie.”
“Willie.” A ghost of a smile crossed Wilmot’s pale features. “You have not called me that in years.”
“Just as you have not called me Max.”
Wilmot closed his eyes, breathing a deep sigh. “What I did today . . . it was not an accident.”
Maximilian rested his hand on Wilmot’s as it lay on his belly. “I know. Do you mind telling me why?”
“Do not tell Mother,” Wilmot said, opening his eyes, his voice desperate. “Permit her to keep believing it was an accident. Please?”
“I promise, Willie. She will never know it from me.”
“Good, then. Thank you.” His eyes slid shut again.
“Can you tell me why you wanted to die?”
Wilmot remained silent for so long, Maximilian thought he had fallen asleep again. Then Wilmot swallowed hard and spoke.
“It is difficult, Max,” he murmured.
“What is?’
“Pleasing her. I never could, I never will.”
“Your mother?”
Wilmot nodded as a tear escaped his closed eyes and traced its way down the side of his face to the pillow. “I can never escape her. She wants me to marry. I do not want to, I am not ready.”
“She can be very persistent that way.” Maximilian formed an I-know-what-you-mean smile.
“I know what will happen when I do, Max,” Wilmot said, opening his eyes. “She will not cease pestering me, dominating me. She will pick my wife apart, just as she does me. Can I subject an innocent girl to that? She willneverleave me alone so I can live my life.”
Maximilian shook his head, squeezing his brother’s hand gently. “Killing yourself is not the answer, Willie. Perhaps if you stand up to her –”
“You know I cannot,” Wilmot’s voice was wild and despairing. “I do not have your courage, Max. I am too weak, I am not strong like you are.”
“You can be strong,” Maximilian said, his voice soothing. “You have the same blood I do. You can do it, if you want to badly enough.”
