Sibling Rivalry
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 16,773 (in three parts)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Getting to know a sibling all over again can be quite a challenge.
Disclaimer: Pretty sure you've figured this out already, but: Isn't mine.
Notes: Book universe. Suppose Mark's brother was older and very similar to Mark in personality and demeanour…
Part 1
The first week of June
Being on an airplane and flying half-way around the world was the last thing Mark Darcy wanted to be doing at this point in time. It was too quiet; his ability to distract himself was limited; his parents, with whom he was travelling, were asleep; the cabin lights were still dimmed. All he had, therefore, were his own thoughts to occupy him. The fact that whenever he closed his eyes he could only see her, the woman he loved, as he'd seen her last, practically blanketed in children (and looking beautiful so blanketed), was a torture beyond compare.
He shifted in his seat, looked out of the window and at the pink- and gold-tinged clouds; they were flying towards the rising sun, so at least it was not like looking into a mirror anymore, a mirror into which he was not pleased at all to gaze.
The alternative, staying home, would not have been much better, and at least he would be distracted and with family once he arrived in Hong Kong. It didn't make the trip, the forced contemplation, any easier to bear; he could only see her face, could only turn over in his head how things had gone so horribly wrong with the only woman he ever had truly loved. He'd been sure that the gap between February and May would have been more than enough time to have distanced himself from his feelings, but seeing her again, particularly with children, had reinforced all too well that he had been incapable of doing anything of the sort—
With a heavy sigh, he made himself turn his thoughts to the wedding. Peter's wedding.
He had never met his future sister-in-law, the woman his elder brother was about to marry, but he was sure he knew exactly what she'd be like. Always fond of a little competition, friendly or otherwise, Peter always went after high-class, cultured women, the ambitious, A-type personality… the real go-getters of the world. He cared little for love; rather, merely loved a challenge.
With a small measure of regret, Mark realised he would have, at one time, been accused of the same.
"Mark?" From across the aisle, it was his mother's voice. He turned away from the window to look at her. Next to her, his father was sound asleep, eye mask and all. "Everything all right?"
He forced a smile and nodded. "Just can't sleep."
"You should try," she said, looking sympathetic. "It's a long flight, and we'll have a busy schedule once we get there."
"I know. Just can't…" He cleared his throat. "Well."
She rose from her seat to take the empty one beside him, then patted his knee affectionately. Quietly she asked, "It's Bridget, isn't it?"
He was stunned, and nodded slightly to confirm it.
She chuckled. "I must look like a mind-reader, but Mark, I know you well enough to know when you're distracted. Add sadness to the mix, and there's only one conclusion to be drawn."
He looked down to where he had his hands folded in his lap.
"I know that you love her," she said tenderly. "It's not something that would be obvious to anyone who doesn't know you as well as I do."
He sighed. He had hoped he hadn't been that transparent. "I can't deny it," he said at last. "As much as I'd prefer to put it behind me, I can't."
"Is there no hope for reconciliation?"
"I doubt it," he said. "She doesn't seem to trust me."
Elaine pursed her lips. "Taking another woman out probably did not help."
"That's ridiculous," he said, quickly and angrily, knowing exactly to what she was referring. "Rebecca only asked if I wanted to share a taxi. That is all. If Bridget had given me a chance to explain… but she didn't, and that's that." He thought of how frequently Rebecca had confided to him how many men were chasing after Bridget, thought of Sinjun, of that message from Gary, and of that secret admirer's Valentine, and felt another rush of anger wash through him. "If she's tired of me and would rather just move on, wants to latch on to an innocent taxi ride as an excuse to chuck me, there isn't much I can do to change her mind."
"Yes, Mark, there is," she said, reaching for his hand. "You just have to open up about your feelings."
A derisive snort of laughter escaped him.
"I know, I know. It goes against everything that is expected of men; British men, no less," she said. "But the important thing is not to make assumptions, and don't let your pride get in the way of what you want. Talk to her." She squeezed his hand. "Did you know that she saw you sharing that innocent taxi ride, she was with her mum and Una Alconbury? You must know how they tortured her over it, Mark. Consider how hurt she was, how betrayed and embarrassed… I'm not sure I wouldn't have chucked you myself, were I in her shoes."
He was surprised once more, both by what she said, and the anger in her own voice.
"And given that Rebecca seems to have no compunction about inviting herself along, like the day we were in town to see you for lunch—"
"I mentioned you were coming, and she insisted on helping. It seemed only polite to accept."
Elaine seemed about to launch into another speech when his father Malcolm called for her. Instead she sighed. "Mark," she said resignedly. "At least promise me you'll talk to Bridget."
"I'll think about it," he said, though privately doubted she would talk to him.
………
The rest of the flight went well enough—he managed to get a few hours of sleep after all—but he could not stop thinking about what his mother had said. Did Bridget truly think he was after Rebecca? Being unfaithful? How could she begin to believe such a thing? It was ridiculous, but he also was beginning to suspect it was entirely possible.
He also began to take his mother's admonition much to heart. He would have to try to talk to Bridget.
Upon arrival it was exactly as his mother had predicted: a whirlwind of activity. He hardly thought they touched upon the sheets of the hotel they'd booked. The wedding was lovely; sedate, understated and classy. His brother had not visibly changed—short-clipped dark hair not unlike Mark's own, still staying trim despite his forty years—and Mark could tell from the small smile that made it to his lips that despite a lifetime of competitiveness with his younger sibling (amiable or otherwise), Peter was as happy to see Mark as Mark was to see him. The brothers embraced, but only briefly. Mark knew Peter was not fond of physical displays of affection, even less so than Mark.
"I am so glad you could make it," said Peter. "We both are. Would not have felt right for my family not to be here." He turned to his bride. "Mother, Father, Mark… I'm sorry introductions are happening after she's joined our family, but… this is Augusta."
His brother's bride was about as he imagined: approximately Peter's age, English, tall and thin, hazel eyes, with stick-straight dark brown hair styled into a perfect bob. Her wedding dress was of cream silk, cut in simple lines with pearl decoration, understated and very elegant. Atop her head was a pearl-encrusted headband. The overall effect was that she looked like something out of an Art Nouveau art print, and it was a good look for her. She smiled shyly, shaking each of their hands in turn, taking Mark's last. "It's a pleasure to meet you after everything Peter's told me." Furrowing her brow, she asked of Mark, "So where's your girlfriend? I've heard interesting things about her."
Mark cleared his throat, glanced to his parents then to his brother. His mother had undoubtedly, in her infinite optimism, failed to inform Peter about the breakup. Even now Elaine looked unapologetic. "We… we've split."
Augusta had the good grace to look mortified. "Not a very good impression, I'm sure," she said, "putting my foot in my mouth straightaway. I'm sorry. I hadn't heard."
"It's all right," he said, smiling. He could only think how much he would've liked to have her there with him, half way around the world, a small bit of sanity from home.
………
It was on a flight back to London from that part of the world once again that Mark thought back to Peter's wedding a year prior, thought of how things had changed so radically in that relatively short amount of time. He glanced to the side, to the woman sleeping soundly beside him (and partially on his shoulder), and smiled fondly. He was thankful for the turn of events that had brought them back together, that following his mother's advice (and she following her own mother's apparently similar advice) had paid off so handsomely. He could not resist leaning to plant a kiss on the top of her head.
That caused her to rouse and push up her sleep mask. Her tousled hair tangled by the elastic made her look charming and adorable. "Something wrong?"
"Not at all, darling," he said. "Just glad to have had you with me for this trip, and looking forward to our next great adventure."
She perked up and sat straight, taking the mask from her eyes. "Los Angeles?"
He laughed. "No," he said, sorry to disappoint her. "I meant you and I. Living together."
"Oh," she said, deflating a bit, then added quickly, "I mean, not that I'm not looking forward to that too."
"I know." He slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Their relationship since talking that night the previous autumn, the night they'd scared each other during the 'bullet man' crisis, had been leaps and bounds better than it ever had been before. Living together during their time in Thailand had only cemented things between them.
"Though I hope you know that I won't be able to stand all of that white," she said teasingly. "Maybe a few magnets on those steel doors to help mark out what's behind each one."
He chuckled. "Actually being in the kitchen on a regular basis and using what's behind those doors will help with that," he said.
Easing into cohabitation with Bridget went more smoothly than he anticipated; that was not to say it was easy, but every little bump was worth it. It was one thing to have spent nearly six months in a shared hotel suite with Bridget; it was somewhat different to have brought her into a space he had lived in on his own for many years.
His house now felt like a home.
………
It was two months into living together when the telephone rang.
"Mark Darcy speaking," he said, as he always did.
The phone was rarely for him. This time it was.
"Mark, it's Peter."
"Peter!" It was an exceptionally good connection from Hong Kong. "How are you?"
"In need of a favour," he said.
"What do you need?" he asked.
Peter exhaled. "Augusta and I are back in the UK. We're in Grafton Underwood and find ourselves in a bit of a bind."
Back in the UK? He felt his eyebrows rise. "For good?"
Peter laughed. "For the foreseeable future, anyway."
"So what's wrong?"
"We're closing on a house… I believe near to you, actually. Near Holland Park. But we've hit a snag and can't move in next week as planned; instead, not for another three weeks. All the hotels are booked solid. Mother suggested I ring you up, that you have a guest room we might be able to use."
Mark's first response, to say yes, was mitigated in remembering that he wasn't the only one who had a say now, but then he realised that Bridget would not mind in the least, given her enthusiasm at talk of meeting them. "Yes, yes," said Mark. "That's fine. Plenty of room here. You're absolutely welcome."
"Oh, fantastic," said Peter, clearly relieved. "Not that I thought you'd say no, but I didn't know what we might do if for some reason you couldn't, and we have so much business to take care of there in London."
"How soon will you be here?" asked Mark. "So the room will be ready for you."
"Sunday would be ideal. Will you be home?"
"Absolutely."
Mark gave Peter the address—to which he proclaimed that they would practically be neighbours—and fixed for them to arrive in time for supper Sunday night before disconnecting the call.
Two days was plenty of preparation time, but he thought he best tell Bridget as soon as she came home from being out with her friends. He went to survey the guest bedroom; there were still a few of Bridget's boxes in there, things she intended for storage. He made short work of moving them from the room into their shared closet, then went hunting for the linens for the bed in there, as there was only a duvet on the mattress at present. He then unfurled the sheet and began trying to make the bed in earnest.
It was rather a losing battle. It didn't seem to fit properly, and the corners he so carefully tucked under kept popping off.
"What on earth…" It was Bridget, clearly a little tiddly; after a moment of staring, she began laughing uproariously. "What are you doing?"
"Making up the bed," he said, standing up, putting his hands on his hips.
"Oh, Mark, this is the top sheet. This is the bottom. It's fitted," she said, holding up the second sheet for him to see. "Why are you making up the bed?"
"Keep it up," he teased, "and it will be for you."
Pouting yet fighting a smile, she threw the fitted sheet down and embraced him; still laughing, she kissed him sweetly, then passionately. Truth be told, he loved how she got a little frisky when she was tipsy. He brought his hands to her back to hold her to him, but she pulled away. "Still going to kick me out of bed?"
"Not a chance," he said.
"So who is this for, then?"
"My brother. And his wife."
She furrowed her brow. "What?"
"They're in Grafton Underwood," he said, feeling the first pangs of remorse for not consulting her first. "They're in need of a place to stay until their own house is ready. Three weeks at the most, he tells me. You're not upset, are you?"
She smiled at last. "No; rather the opposite. So looking forward to meeting them! But God, tonight?"
"No," he said.
She allowed her smile to broaden. "Good," she said, resuming her embrace, combing her fingers through his hair. The feel of her nails raking along his scalp was blissful. She kissed the corner of his mouth, then said, "I believe there was some business to attend to in our own bedroom."
………
The knock at the door startled Mark, though it should not have; Peter was not only always punctual, but usually early. He got to his feet to let his brother in, smiling broadly as he did so.
"Peter," he said, reaching out to take their suitcases. "Made it in good time, I wager."
"Smooth sailing, as Father is wont to say," Peter said.
"Augusta," Mark said, turning to his sister-in-law. "You're looking lovely."
She smiled reservedly. "Thank you, Mark," she said. "We are so thankful for your hospitality."
"Think nothing of it," said Mark. "You're family."
Peter pulled the door closed behind him, then took in the foyer. "Gorgeous," he said.
"Thank you," he said. He could not help but think how much it had improved with Bridget's input. "Let me show you up to your room."
"Thanks," he said as they went up the stairs. "If you don't mind me asking for some help with the rest."
"The rest?"
Peter chuckled. "We're not moving in for good," he said. "Most of our things are in storage awaiting the house. But we've got a few more bags with the rest of our day-to-day things."
"I promise you won't even know we're here," added Augusta.
Once they were shown to the room, bags obtained and delivered, they returned to the kitchen, where Mark had a roast in the oven. "Oh, smells delicious," said Peter. "Aside from eating well at Chez Darcy, I'm a little tired of takeaway food."
"Will your Bridget be joining us for supper?" said Augusta.
"Is this she?" asked Peter, finding a framed photo, taken at Jude's wedding. Mark nodded. "She's grown up into quite the pretty lady," he said. "I remember her being a kid. Hell on wheels. But so sweet."
Mark laughed at his brother's description of Bridget as a child. In some ways she had not significantly changed.
Peter continued, "I'm glad you were able to patch things up. I got to meet the Joneses when they came by for lunch. Just like I remember, and speak so highly of you, and how happy you are together. I can't wait to meet her again and get to know her."
Mark felt incredibly happy to hear Peter say so. He would have been loathe to admit it, but he wanted his brother's approval very much.
"Mark?" asked Augusta. "What's all this on your cabinet doors?"
Mark had completely forgotten about Bridget's magnetically-based navigation system on the stainless steel doors, and chuckled. He was about to explain when he heard footsteps upstairs. "Well, Peter, you're in luck. She's here."
In short order he saw her descending the stairs, stopping in her tracks at the sight of the guests. "Hi," she said with a somewhat frozen smile, then added, "Oh! You must be Peter!" She ran down the rest of the way, then held her hand out to shake. "It's so nice to meet you at last."
She seemed to want to hug him, but more surprising to Mark was that he wanted to hug her, and awkwardly they attempted an embrace, tilting the same way and laughing at the botched effort after achieving a sort of success at last.
"It's nice to meet you again," said Peter with emphasis. "Though I'm sure you don't remember me. You were very small then."
With a bright smile, she turned to Augusta. "And you must be—" There was a horrifying moment where he thought Bridget might have forgotten her name, but he needn't have worried. "—Augusta." Forgoing handshakes, she gave Peter's wife a friendly hug. "It's really nice to meet you too." Stepping away, Bridget continued. "I'm so sorry I'm home late."
"For once you're not late," said Mark. "They're early."
She smirked then playfully tapped Mark on the shoulder.
Mark then noticed Peter's expression had subtly changed. "'Home'?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," said Bridget brightly. "I moved in after we returned from Thailand."
Peter tried to keep his features in check, but Mark could tell he was surprised by the tone of his voice, which went decidedly cool and stern as he looked squarely at Bridget. "I didn't get the impression your father knew about this."
Mark's stomach went thoroughly acidic. It hadn't occurred to him that Peter didn't realise they were living together, or might not approve of their living together before marrying.
"My father?" asked Bridget in reply.
"Yes," said Peter. "They came to lunch at my parents' today. No one mentioned you were living together."
Bridget laughed nervously, blushing crimson. "I haven't had a chance to tell my parents yet."
This statement surprised both brothers, eliciting raised single brows from both.
"Bridget," said Mark. "We've been living together for two months."
"Mark," she said between gritted teeth, "let's please talk about this later."
At that moment he was saved by the bell, literally, when the timer for the roast went off. "Why don't I help you set the table?" chirped Augusta.
"Yes, thank you," said Bridget with a great rush of breath, heading into the kitchen, examining the magnets before pulling open the cabinet with the dishes in it.
"Oh," Augusta asked. "Is that what those are for?"
Bridget explained the magnet system as the two women headed towards the table with plates, silverware and cloth napkins in their arms. Mark went to the oven to pull out the roast. He carved into it, saw it was perfectly done, and switched off the heat.
"Mark," said his brother from closely behind him. "Are you out of your mind?"
Mark turned around, startled. "What do you mean?"
"Her parents," he said; it did not clear things up until he added, "They hold you in terribly high esteem, have been friends with Mother and Father for years, and you don't show them the courtesy and respect they deserve to let them know you've brought their daughter into your home?"
Mark felt his jaw tense. "Open the red there, will you?" he asked, in lieu of replying right away.
Peter did as asked, but it was clear he was not going to take silence for an answer. "I'm waiting."
Mark looked to him. "I thought she'd already told them," he said. "Her relationship with her mother is a bit complicated, though."
"Mark, as a gentleman, the job was yours to do," Peter said.
"As I said," he said, "it did not occur to me that she had not told them. I will talk to Bridget and we will discuss this with her parents together."
"Table's ready when you are," called Bridget; with that, discussion of the living arrangements screeched to a halt. Mark put the roast and potatoes into a serving dish, then brought it to the dining table. Peter brought the wine as Bridget went back for wine glasses.
Mark felt in a somewhat foul, sulky mood after his chat with Peter, and was thankful that Bridget was her usual friendly, engaging self. She more than made up for his silence. What Peter said had bothered him… but he was also bothered by the fact that he sort of agreed a little.
"You had a good flight, I trust?" Bridget asked as she cut into her roast.
"Yes," said Peter. "Quite wonderful, if long."
"I'm glad to hear," Bridget said. "That can be such a bear of a flight, though I've got to say, much easier to cope with in first class."
"Absolutely," said Augusta.
"You can really stretch out, plus there's all that champagne," she said with a wink. "So I understand you two are moving in nearby?"
"Mm, yes," said Peter. "Just a few blocks away."
"Oh, that'll be fun," enthused Bridget, "having you so nearby."
"I agree, plus you both know London so well," Peter said. "I haven't lived here in years, and Augusta was raised in Hong Kong."
"Oh!" said Bridget. "If there's anything you need—the best coffee shops, pubs, clubs, shopping, whatever—don't hesitate to ask! I'd love to show you around town."
Augusta smiled, then looked briefly to Peter then back to Bridget. "That would be super," she said. "I don't really know anyone here."
"Wonderful! Just let me know when you're free," she said with a bright smile. "And Peter? What is it that you do for a living, anyway?"
Peter glanced to Mark, distinct surprise on his face; it was true that Mark had not talked much about his brother, and now he felt ashamed that Peter knew he hadn't. "Financial analyst, investment banking," he said, looking back to Bridget, "but I haven't yet landed a position in town."
Bridget grinned. "Oh, I have just the contact for you. What about you? Banking too?"
The last part was directed to Augusta, who blushed a little and smiled. "Oh, no. My family's in banking, though. That's how I met Peter."
"What do you do, then? For work?"
"I don't." She sipped her wine. "I decided not to go back after we got married."
"Oh!" said Bridget with a smile that Mark felt was probably in part forced; he knew how she felt about women giving up their careers after marriage, given everything he'd heard her say about her friend Magda. "Well, that just gives us more time to have some fun together." Mark swore that each smile Augusta gave to Bridget was warmer than the last.
Despite his sullen mood, Mark managed a grin. Whatever they thought about the living situation, Bridget herself would be able to win them over with the sheer force of her personality.
………
"So about not telling your parents."
In the privacy of their bedroom, Mark said this to Bridget, and was met with resounding silence.
"Mark," she said at last. "I figured what they didn't know couldn't hurt them. Besides. What business is it of theirs, anyway?"
"They are your parents, people on whose good side I strive to remain. I don't know how they feel about us living together, never mind finding out about it so long after the fact."
"Then why didn't you ask me about that before we moved in together?" she retorted.
"I figured you might have spoken up about it at the time if it were a big problem," he said. "I also figured you'd tell them as a matter of course. I thought your mum was eager for us to get together."
"She is, but…"
"You should have told her," he said crossly. "It's patently outrageous that we've been living together for two months and you haven't shown your parents the respect—"
"Mark." She furrowed her brow, set her jaw firm. "Would you prefer instead that I had followed the oh-so-respectful advice my mother saw fit to give me?"
"What advice?"
Bridget said, mimicking her mother perfectly, "'Make sure he keeps that thing just for weeing with.'"
At this Mark began to laugh at the absurdity of this 'advice'… until he realised that not only was she was deadly serious, but was threatening to follow it now. "Bridget," he said, reaching for her hand. "I know your mother is probably the most impossible woman in the world, but what if she hears from someone else? She'll be hurt. And your father even more."
She drew her lips tight. "I suppose you're right."
He pulled her close into a hug. "Promise me we'll tell them at the earliest opportunity."
"Yes, Mark," she said resignedly.
"After all," Mark said, planting a kiss into her hair, "our living together has been quite a success story."
He heard her chuckle. "Yeah," she said. "Thought I might have driven you mad by now."
"You have your moments," he teased, "but all in all, I very much approve of sharing a living space with you."
"There's still time," she teased back.
"What?"
"To follow Mum's advice."
………
"Mark, good, you're here."
Mark looked up from his desk to see Peter standing there with a small stack of papers in hand. "What can I do for you?" he asked, though he had a suspicion.
"Need to fax this, and am hoping you have a fax machine."
"Yes," he said with a grin. He stood, indicated with his hand where it was. He knew his brother was clever enough to know how to work it.
"Let me say again," Peter said as he punched the number, "how much we appreciate your hospitality, how grateful I am to Bridget for taking Augusta around, taking her shopping, introducing her to her friends… It's difficult for her to make friends, and I'm so glad they're getting on well. Just wanted you to know how fond I am of her already."
"I am very glad for that," said Mark, at his desk again, picking up his pen to write. Despite her cool demeanour, he was growing to like Augusta very much. "And you, again, are very welcome."
The fax having concluded, he picked up the originals and offered Mark a grin. "Excellent choice this time," said Peter. "Well. Have a meeting with Bridget's friend at Brightlings. Apparently they're looking for an analyst. Until later."
Mark was too stunned to say little more than to wish him luck as he left. Although he was sure Peter had not intended to hurt him, the comment had done just that. It felt like his brother could not leave well enough alone, and end it with a compliment; instead, as seemed to be habit, it was an insult instead.
It also served as a reminder that even though Peter might not have cared much about the notion of love or soul-mates, he had always been somewhat critical of Mark's girlfriends. It made him wonder when his real opinion of Bridget would surface, the criticisms, the cloaked insults…
"Mark."
He looked up. It was Bridget.
"Yes, sorry?"
"I've been calling for you for ten minutes. On which planet have you been?"
"Sorry," he said again, rising from behind his desk.
She drew her brows together. "What's wrong?"
"What makes you think something's wrong?"
She stared at him with a piercing look. "Calling for you for ten minutes, Mark."
He glanced down, fiddling with some papers. "Is Augusta here?"
"No, she had an appointment with the estate agent. Did Peter get his fax sent?"
Mark nodded. "He's gone to meet Jude."
"Great," she said. "So you're free to tell me what's wrong."
He looked back up to her. "My brother has a way of cutting me to the quick without trying."
She looked a little startled. "But he's so nice. Very kind and polite, and always says lovely things about you to me."
It surprised him to hear her say that. In response he said quickly, "Well, he would."
"Mark. Whatever he said, I'm sure he didn't mean it in a negative way," she said. "After all, you are not always so easy to interpret, either." She came up close to him with a tender smile, raising her hand to trace her fingers over his face. "I'm sure you don't see it… but he is so like you it's a bit scary."
He pursed his lips, raising his brow in disbelief. She burst out in a laugh.
"You have such similar mannerisms," she continued. "The eyebrow lift, the stern tone… you two are definitely more alike than not." She tipped her head to the side as she looked up to him, studying his features, cupping his cheek in her palm. "Why did you never talk about him? I'll be honest—I'd forgotten you had a brother. Usually when two people get together they talk about their families at least a little bit."
"You don't talk about your brother much."
"But I do talk about him," she said. "The first I'd heard of Peter was when your mother mentioned his getting married."
He didn't answer right away; he was too busy putting his thoughts in order. "We weren't very close," he said at last. "I didn't feel like he cared much for me. That I was a disappointment and a failure. He was very competitive and overly critical of my choices. We drifted apart while he was in Hong Kong."
"What changed?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you seem to get on just fine now," she said.
He placed his hand atop hers. "Nothing's really changed, Bridget."
"Rubbish," she said. "Either he is obviously very fond of you, or he's a world-class actor on par with Olivier."
He pulled her into a hug, planting a kiss on the top of her head. He loved how she always tried to see the best in everyone. She did not know his brother like he did, though. Nothing really had changed.