That Kind of Woman by Paula Reed

Instead, she clasped her hands formally in front of her. “He’s sick, Major Carrington. Very, very sick.”
    He nodded. “Your letter made that hauntingly clear.”
    “Forgive me if it seemed insensitive.”
    “No, no, I’d quite rather know in frank terms what it is we’re facing. I appreciate your warning. And how are you?”
    “I’m fine.”
    He nodded stiffly. “That’s good. You have enough help then?”
    “Reggie’s here,” Henry offered dryly.
    “Of course,” Andrew returned in the same tone. “He would be.”
    Miranda shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Reggie is tireless and always a ray of sunshine. I can’t imagine what George and I would have done without him. The servants, too, have gone above and beyond their duties. Everyone just adores George. Speaking of my husband, he is looking forward to seeing all of you.”
    Henry cast an uneasy glance around him. “Well, Emma’s a bit young, don’t you think, to be faced with all this? Maybe I should stay with her. Besides, too much activity will only tire poor George. I’ll just peek in on him later. I mean, if you think it’s best.” He gave Miranda a wan smile.
    Poor Henry, she thought to herself. For all his worldly airs, he really was still very juvenile. She politely followed his cue. “You are so thoughtful, Henry. I do think it would be best if George and Major Carrington had a bit of time alone first.”
    She sent Henry off with a maid to find his room, and Andrew turned to her with a grim expression. “Quite a comfort, isn’t he?”
    “He’s very young,” she replied.
    “He’s not much younger than you, and yet you seem to be holding up quite admirably.”
    She stared at him a moment. Admiration? Then why the look of aversion earlier? She wished she had some idea what he really thought of her.
    “Well,” she said, “you are the one he wants most to see, and he’s having a good day. Come, I’ll take you to him.”
    They ascended the stairs, but just outside the bedroom door, she stopped and placed her hand on Andrew’s sleeve. “He doesn’t look at all as you remember him.”
    He stiffened and pulled away at her touch, and Miranda dropped her hand, disappointed that the warmth between them had not lasted.
    “So your letter said,” he replied.
    “But you mustn’t pity him, or at least, you mustn’t let it show.”
    He drew a deep breath and held it. “I know. I won’t.”
    She stepped around him and opened the door. “George,” she called quietly, “there’s someone here to see you.”
    It had been easy to promise Miranda that he wouldn’t react—much harder to keep that promise. It wasn’t the fact that his brother had changed that shocked him. It was the fact that he was so obviously dying.
    Andrew thought of the retreat to Corunna in 1809. They had lost over five thousand soldiers, along with the wives and mistresses who had followed them. Through those fifteen days of hell, he hadn’t let his emotions cloud his judgment or show on his face. A morose officer was hell on morale.
    Drawing on that experience, he forced a smile and moved with easy grace across the room. “George! God, it’s good to see you. Good to be home.”
    George’s gaunt face lit up, and a lump formed in Andrew’s throat.
    “Andy, you made it! I thought the snow would surely slow you down.”
    “A little snow never stopped a Carrington. How are you feeling?”
    “Today is a good day, thank God. It means we can talk.”
    “Of course. I’d like that.”
    Bowing her head graciously, Miranda excused herself, leaving the two brothers to their reunion. It seemed to Andrew that the room felt emptier all of a sudden. A chill he hadn’t noticed before settled around him.
    “What have the doctors said?” Andrew asked.
    George gave him a sad smile. “Let’s not waste time on what the doctors say. There’s nothing to be done. That’s all they have had to say of any consequence. I’m sorry to leave you with all this. I know you