Free The Best of Men by Claire Letemendia Page A

thrashed so hard that he could not sit down for days, though he deserved worse. They could both have broken their necks. Afterwards, Tom shied away from him whenever he tried to apologise, and eventually he gave up.
    That September he left for his first term at Oxford, and when he returned to the house for the Christmastide holiday, the distancebetween him and his brother seemed even greater: he had made new friends, such as Ingram, and found himself bored by Tom’s company. He took to teasing Tom, and they would end up in fights that he won, since he was bigger and stronger. Over the years his brother grew almost as tall, and stockier in build, so the physical sparring ceased and they fought with words. These battles Laurence also won, sending Tom into speechless rage. By the time that Tom started at Merton College, at the age of seventeen, Laurence was off in London and visited home infrequently. If they chanced to encounter one another alone, Tom barely addressed him.
III.
    “When did you hear?” Ingram asked Tom, as they rode towards Chipping Campden.
    “My father sent his valet two days ago with the news. I’m glad you came to find me before I set out – I was in need of some company,” Tom confessed, at which Ingram guessed that he must have mixed feelings about Beaumont’s reappearance. “Ingram, is my brother any different?”
    “I’m sure he is,” Ingram replied cautiously. “He saw some awful things while he was away. And he was wounded over there, almost killed.”
    “I can’t imagine him as a soldier, he was so poor at fencing. He used to hate any form of discipline. He always did exactly as he pleased.” Ingram smiled at the truth of this. “You know,” Tom went on, “I wanted to fight abroad, too, but my father wouldn’t allow it.”
    “He couldn’t afford to risk both of his sons in a foreign conflict.”
    “It will be different here.”
    “Yes, it will,” Ingram said, looking at him. He had Lord Beaumont’s good features and colouring, his hair and beard dark blond as his father’s would once have been. Save for a hint of his brother in the fine lines of his jaw and high cheekbones, nothing else betrayed their kinship.
    Certainly not his manner, Ingram thought: Tom carried himself with all the poise and authority of a handsome young nobleman, in his well-cut clothes and expensive calfskin boots. Yet he had a sober, martial air about him these days that Ingram had not observed in him before. “How’s the troop?” Ingram asked.
    “I’m proud of the men, to be honest, though we’re still too few in number. I can’t wait to see them tested in the field.”
    “Soon enough,” Ingram said, unable to hide his own pessimism.
    “You’re not afraid of a war, are you?” Tom said, as though no one should be.
    “I
am
afraid, of what it will do to this country.”
    “Those scoundrels in Parliament should get what they’re asking for!”
    Tom spurred on his horse, and they passed the rest of their journey in silence. Upon galloping into the courtyard, he dismounted, flung his reins to the groom, and marched up to the house with his head held high, which made Ingram wonder if he was still angry from their brief political discussion. Ignoring the manservant who offered to take his hat and cloak, he entered the hall, with Ingram on his heels.
    Beaumont was installed in an armchair, slouched back, a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He looked up at them and then slowly extricated himself from the chair.
    “Home at last, eh?” Tom said, in a brusque tone. “How are you, Laurence?”
    “I’m well, thanks,” Beaumont said, sounding formally polite. “And you?”
    “Never better.”
    Ingram started to laugh. “Is that all you have to say to each other after six years? How about a fraternal hug?”
    Tom approached rather awkwardly, his arms wide.
    “Oh, Tom – you don’t have to embrace me if you don’t want to,” Beaumont said, relaxing into a laugh also. Tom