“He can afford such philanthropic extravagances these days?” Or was he becoming like their father—his heart too big for his coffers?
Atlas made a humming sound. “We’ve more work to do. But every day brings improvement. We’ve sold four of the paintings. And the London townhouse. And Matilda rents out her little Cumbrian cottage. And once I’m finished with the dower house, we’ll do the same with that. My songs sell, too.” Said with a shake of the head like he couldn’t quite believe it.
“War songs or?—”
“Love songs.”
Drew snorted. “Drivel.”
“Yes. But people love them. And it’s good for us, too. I’ve been able to almost complete renovations of the dower house with the funds from my music.”
“How do you write it, though? Been in love before? Are you pining?”
“No. And no. Writing about love is easy. I think about pudding.”
Drew almost stumbled but caught himself, resulting in only the slightest hitch of his step. “Pardon me? Pudding?”
“Or Bess.”
“A barmaid?”
“A cow.” Atlas tugged at his cravat.
“You’re in love with a cow?”
“No! But she’s a fine animal. And she deserves some appreciation. And I was rather low on inspiration that week.”
“You write love songs about pudding and cows?”
“And sunsets and a good cold ale, among other things.” Atlas ripped off his jacket, a too-big affair meant more for comfort than fashion. “All lovely things.”
Drew straightened the cuffs of his perfectly tailored coat. “And no one notices?”
“The one about Bess fetched a pretty penny. Zander used to help me write, but when he can’t I have to do what I can.”
“I’m fascinated.” Quite despite himself. In all his two and thirty years, he’d never shared an interest, that he knew of, with his older brother. He wouldn’t call it interest now. More like… curiosity. “Give me a lyric.”
“No.”
“I want to hear one.”
“No.”
“I’ll be in London tomorrow, and I’ll just find the sheet music and?—”
“Fine.” Atlas cleared his throat and sang in the rich baritone that had cast a spell since their childhood. “A glow in her cheek, the dew in her eye; my heart’s never steady, when my sweet lady cries.”
“What’s that about?”
“Sunset,” Atlas mumbled. “Just changeskytocheekandleaftoeye, then mention a lady and—” He shrugged.
“Why the crying?”
“A storm rolled through.”
“Ah. I think you might be a genius, Atlas.”
Another shrug. “The people seem to like it.”
