Sibling Rivalry

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 16,773 (in three parts)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, etc.: See Part 1.

Part 2

At Bridget's insistence, they all went out to dinner that evening. He knew her motives, knew she wanted to observe the interaction between brothers, and honestly, he did not mind. He did not, after all, dislike his brother, and the evening was going fairly splendidly.

Until they ran into an old acquaintance.

"Mark! Bridget!"

It was Rebecca, long hair a glossy curtain, brightly false smile plastered in place as she air-kissed over Bridget's cheek.

"How lovely to see the two of you still together," she said. "Must be wonderful for you, Bridget."

He saw Bridget fighting back a caustic comment of her own in reaction to what she had often referred to as jellyfishing.

Seemingly sensing the thin ice on which she had tread, Rebecca swung to face Peter and Augusta. "And oh, you can't be anyone but Mark's brother. Mark, darling, you must introduce us."

With as much courtesy as he could muster—duly noting the steam rising off of Bridget's head—he introduced his brother and sister-in-law to Rebecca.

"They're just recently arrived from Hong Kong," Mark concluded.

"That explains why I never got to meet them sooner. So pleased to meet you," she said, extending her hand towards Augusta.

To Mark's surprise, she did not accept the handshake, just gave Rebecca an icy glare.

Peter then spoke up, surprising Mark doubly. "In our absence from England, I hadn't realised the rules of polite society had changed so much as to allow any woman on the street to be so crassly over-familiar with a man when his fiancée is sitting right next to him."

Mark had to admit it was a particularly good riposte that obviously zinged straight to her weakest spot; Rebecca blanched a little, stood upright, smiled in that completely forced way again, and excused herself.

"Who was that?" asked Peter, once she was gone.

"She used to be a friend of mine," said Bridget sheepishly between clenched teeth, glancing down.

Peter looked thoughtful, glancing from Mark to Bridget and back again. "Ah." He cut in to dinner. "Sorry for the white lie, by the way, but I didn't think you'd mind an exaggeration in the name of putting that tart in her place."

That made Bridget chuckle as she sipped on her wine, recovering from her embarrassment after that run-in with Rebecca. Under the table, he reached for Bridget's hand and squeezed it briefly. She turned to smile at him. He knew he'd been forgiven for the mistake he'd made while they were apart; it didn't mean he didn't like to remind her at any given moment that he recognised what a monumental mistake it'd been.

The rest of the evening continued undisturbed, and turned out to be a very nice time together. Mark knew, however, that he was bound to get a grilling from his brother over what had occurred at dinner. When Peter joined him in the study and closed the door behind him, he knew it would happen sooner than later.

"Mark," he said in a quiet tone. "Tell me who that really was there at dinner."

Mark was not quite what sure what to say, and spent many moments composing his thoughts before he spoke. "Bridget is in many ways closer to her friends, her self-styled Urban Family, than she is to her real family. They know things about her long before her family does; she lives and breathes by their advice and approval, or at least she did much more so early in our relationship. Rebecca, while not strictly in that inner circle, was a friend of Bridget's, and was the only one who seemed to warm to me. None of the others accepted me." It embarrassed him to think how foolish and blind he had been. "Bridget tried to warn me."

"Warn you about what?"

"That Rebecca was doing everything in her power to split us up. She only seemed nice, friendly, trying to include me in things… I thought Bridget was being ridiculous and paranoid."

"Did you cheat on Bridget with that woman?"

"No," he said adamantly. "But I didn't see the manipulation she had been orchestrating until I found myself sharing a room with her at a weekend getaway long after we'd split. Didn't realise what an act it had all been."

Peter's eyes widened. "Did you sleep with her?"

He hated admitting that he had, but the truth was the truth, that he'd been so humiliated at not seeing what everyone else had seen that he'd been too weak to refuse her advances.

He did not expect what happened next. "Mark!" he said, veritably exploding, interpreting the silence correctly. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I—"

"That's just it," interrupted Peter. "You weren't thinking, at least not with the head on your shoulders."

"No, no," he said, "I didn't even really fancy her—"

"And yet you slept with her?"

Mark did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing. In hindsight he knew it had been stupid to sleep with her, particularly as he could only think of Bridget out in the old servants' quarters the whole night.

"So why, if you didn't fancy her?"

He thought back to that night, didn't honestly know what had kept him in that room instead of gracefully admitting a grave misapprehension on her part and leaving to prostrate himself at Bridget's feet. "It seemed only polite," he said in a quiet voice.

"Polite? Oh, Mark, that takes the cake. You should consider yourself a lucky man that she ever forgave you." Peter began pacing, not saying anything for many moments. "It pains me to think that you still weren't able to tell the difference between an honest, sensible girl like your Bridget, and someone like Rebecca, whose true nature both Augusta and I perceived in fewer than thirty seconds of acquaintance."

"Peter," he began, feeling blindsided that Peter would be so vehement in chastising him, especially since Mark would have thought Rebecca to be the sort of girl for him in Peter's eyes. "It isn't something I'm proud of."

At that Peter seemed to ease up on the criticism. "Yes," he said in a much gentler voice, his eyes softer and slightly more emotional. "I can see that."

A rapping at the door interrupted the conversation. "Mark? Are you in there?"

Mark chuckled; where else could he possibly be? "Yes, darling, come in."

Clad in her bunny-print pyjama bottoms and plain pale blue tank, her hair pulled up into a ponytail at the crown of her head, and her bunny slippers on her feet, she was clearly expecting Mark to be alone. At realising Peter was there she flushed a bright pink and folded her arms across her chest in a futile effort to hide her attire. "Oh, hi," she said to Peter.

"Hi," he said, clearly amused.

Addressing Mark again, she said, "I was just getting ready for bed and wanted to see if you were going to join me."

"Give me a few minutes. I'll be right up."

"Okay." She looked back to Peter. "I thought you were already in your room in bed. But, well, since you're not…" She went to him, went up onto her toes, and kissed him goodnight on the cheek. "Night."

Peter smiled down at her and said, "Sweet dreams."

With a obviously delighted grin, she left.

That his brother seemed pleased by this show of affection was surprising to Mark, who could only wonder again when the other shoe would figuratively drop. Peter seemed to pick up on the surprise, though, and grinned. He said, "You know, Mark, it would be nice not to have to lie."

"Lie?"

He looked at Mark as if he were daft. "Good night, Mark."

He wondered if Bridget realised he was as distracted as he was as he prepared to go to sleep, as he crawled into bed, and took her into his arms. It was much later that it finally occurred to him to what Peter must have been referring:

The white lie he'd told to Rebecca at dinner.

………

Since Peter and Augusta had come to stay a week prior, it was a rare night that Mark and Bridget had supper alone at home. That evening found the two of them on their own, and with a grin Mark popped open a bottle of red wine.

"As much as I love my brother," said Mark, "I'm glad for a respite."

Bridget chuckled.

"And you," said Mark, pouring her a glass, "you're a real trouper."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"You've been so nice to Augusta," said Mark.

She stared at him as if he'd suddenly burst out into show tunes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I know my brother," said Mark. "I know the kind of woman that attracts him. I truly appreciate your putting up with it."

She began to laugh in a slightly alarming way. "Mark," she said. "I'm sorry to laugh, but that's the most ridiculous thing I've heard in some time."

"Bridget, it's all right," he said. "If you're not comfortable with her, you don't have to say you are for the sake of family harmony."

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. "What?"

"Well, you always like to see the good in everyone."

"I'm trying really hard to take that as the compliment it is," she said, "but it's hard when you think I could be so fake—"

"I don't. I'm only going by what I know of my brother," he said, "and a reasonable understanding of your personality."

At this Bridget only stared at him again, silent for many moments before speaking. "You really haven't spent much time with her, have you? Why else would you say that?"

He drew his brows together. "She's a little… well… distant. A very cool personality, aloof and remote, but very polite."

Bridget laughed again. "She's shy, Mark. Once you get to know her she's quite personable and easy to talk to."

Mark scoffed.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I know what kind of marriage my brother has been looking for all of his life," Mark said. "I have seen no evidence that tells me he hasn't found it."

She narrowed her eyes. "What sort of marriage do you think he has, exactly?" she queried, incredulous.

"He's not an emotional person. He would want someone as competitive as he is," he said. "Someone who meets his standards, has the right pedigree, and can keep up with him. And that he can tolerate being around."

She said nothing in response before sighing and turning away.

"Bridget?" he asked.

"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head, walking towards the table with dinner. "And you need to spend more time with your sister-in-law."

He didn't quite know what to say to that; he'd spent plenty of time with Augusta. As they sat to partake in dinner, he said at last, rather futilely and in a slightly petulant tone, "I am not impossible."

"Okay," she conceded. "Not impossible. Thick as a brick, maybe, but not impossible."

………

After getting word that the car they'd purchased just after they'd arrived in London was ready to be picked up from the dealership, Peter asked Mark to accompany him in order to drive the car he'd borrowed from their father. They decided to make an afternoon of it, returning Malcolm's car to him, having some tea with their mother before driving back to London.

The conversation with Peter during the drive back to London was pleasant but did not veer into any potentially difficult subjects. They spoke of their parents and other relatives; Peter told him all about the job he'd secured with Brightlings Bank; told him in excruciating detail all about moving and purchasing the new house, which made Mark vow never to move again.

They did not discuss Bridget, Augusta, or the respective relationships therein.

In entering the house, Mark had to wonder at first if the women were home. Upon closer inspection, though, he realised he was hearing music playing. Familiar music.

"Sounds like the girls are watching something," said Peter, striding towards the front room, where the television was.

"For the love of God," said Mark jokingly, "do not go in there."

"What?" he asked. "Why not?" Peter disappeared into the front room. Mark got closer to listen to the expected scolding. "So did the two of you have a nice—"

"Shh!" came Augusta's voice loudly and, to Mark's surprise, rather hysterically. "Are you mad? Mr Darcy is just about to propose again!"

Mark tried not to laugh as Peter emerged from the front room looking somewhat shell-shocked.

"I did try to warn you," said Mark, chuckling. "Never interrupt a woman watching that."

"I can deduce what they're watching, but…" he trailed off.

"Every woman in England over the age of thirteen has seen it—has to have seen it—and your wife cannot be excepted. The fervour with which they watch is almost a religion with Bridget and her friends," said Mark, "and I believe your wife herself is being indoctrinated."

The women appeared shortly thereafter, both smiling in a very swoony way. "I can see why you like that so much," said Augusta. "Excellent production."

"I can't believe you never saw it," said Bridget in reply.

"I'd ask what you've been up to," said Mark, "but it seems all too obvious to me."

Bridget smirked. "It seemed only right and proper," she said. "An injustice that had to be resolved."

"Indeed," Mark said. "Welcome to the cult, Augusta. Peter, if your wife asks you to take a bath with your shirt on, just say no."

Bridget punched him playfully on the arm, then said, "We were talking before, and Augusta had a marvellous idea for dinner."

"Yes," Augusta said. "A particularly favourite dish of mine from home, cha siu baau."

"Pork buns," added Bridget, then looked at Mark. "What do you think?"

"I think it sounds fantastic."

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised," said Peter with a smile. "It's one of her best dishes."

"Before the mini, we popped to the market and got some pork to get it roasting," said Bridget.

"It's probably almost done," said Augusta. "Time to put the rest of it together."

It turned out that the kitchen was missing some very crucial ingredients for the sauce into which the pork was to be mixed. Peter offered to go if someone could direct him to the nearest Asian market. Bridget offered to go with him so that Augusta could carry on making the dough for the buns. Augusta made up a list for them; Peter was well familiar with the ingredients needed. Within a few short moments the two of them were off.

Augusta asked Mark to pull down the ingredients for the bread. She had it all mixed up and kneaded and set it to rise while Mark diced up the pork roast.

"I think you'll like the bun dough," said Augusta, washing her hands. "I've heard all about how much you love fresh bread."

Mark laughed. "Yes, it's true, though I think Bridget likes to exaggerate that as an excuse to buy more bread."

"Oh, no," she said. "I mean when you and Peter were boys. Elaine's homemade bread."

Mark was taken aback. The only person who could have told her was Peter.

She chuckled, continuing: "Heard all about your bad experience with a particularly hot curry, too… but that apparently hasn't kept you from liking your food spicy."

She was referring to an incident in an Indian restaurant in London just after Mark's graduation from Cambridge, where Mark should have believed the menu when it called the dish 'Fire Fire Fire'; again, only Peter and himself were there.

"Mark?"

He looked to her again.

"Why do you look so surprised?"

"Peter talks to you about me?"

She chuckled. "Of course he talks about you. He talks about you a lot, and always has."

"That does surprise me," said Mark, dicing the last of the pork. "What else does he talk about?"

"How competitive you were as boys," she said. "The football, the chess… how it made both of you better men. And your work, of course. The Indonesians, the Mexicans… there's no case of yours that he doesn't follow. He's so proud of what you do."

He realised a few moments later that he had stopped all movement, had not blinked, when Augusta furrowed her brows and asked him if he was all right.

"I'm fine," Mark answered, feeling guilty for never having spoken to Bridget about Peter. "I just didn't think he… well, suffice to say, I'm glad to have gotten the opportunity to get to know Peter again."

"Again?"

Mark chuckled sheepishly. "There was a time when we weren't really speaking. It wasn't one thing, no single discussion that set us drifting apart. It just happened. It's not even that I was angry at him, or that he was angry at me."

Astutely, Augusta remarked, "It's not always easy to know what Peter's thinking, when he approves or disapproves of something. He's gotten better, though, in the time I've known him."

Mark did not know what to say in response; he had always thought his brother hard to read too, and similarly kept his own emotions in check so as not to seem weak. He was saved from having to reply, however, by Bridget and Peter's return.

"We come bearing shaoxing wine, oyster sauce and everything else we need," chirped Bridget, bearing a small carrier bag and a bright smile. Peter was close behind with a larger, heavier bag and an equally wide smile.

"Perfect timing," said Augusta. "Need to make the sauce."

The other ingredients had already been previously assembled, and with this addition Augusta mixed together the spicy barbeque sauce, which Bridget watched with starry-eyed fascination, almost admiration. Mark could not, however, get their conversation out of his head; rather, the implications of the conversation, that Peter had not felt the same sense of estrangement he had, that he'd spoken fondly of their childhood and of Mark, and followed his work with a favourable eye.

The baau, baked rather than steamed, were delicious, and were served with the remainder of the shaoxing wine. It was a really great evening all around. They played a few games of cards, and drank a bit too much of the wine; Bridget insisted on ice cream for dessert.

"I'll have chocolate, if you'll be a dear," she said, tilting her head in an exaggerated fashion and batting her eyelashes at him. He chuckled.

"Well, I'm not sure," he said. "I spent minutes on my feet chopping up pork while you got to go to the Asian market. Maybe you ought to fetch it for us."

"No, no," said Bridget, swooning dramatically with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. "I insist. The market was a nightmare. I still need time to recover."

"If it's too much trouble, I could get it," said Peter, the politeness of his tone revealing his irritation.

"Oh, no," said Mark, getting to his feet. "We're only teasing. I'll get it. We have chocolate and vanilla. What'll it be?"

After two votes for chocolate and one for vanilla—he would take a little of each—he went to the freezer and pulled out the canisters. As he scooped out all four servings, he could only ponder Peter's concern. After a week and a half of staying at their home, could he really believe they were seriously having a squabble over ice cream?

After returning to the sitting room and doling out bowls and spoons, he took his seat again. Not unexpectedly, Bridget sidled up to him, dipping her spoon liberally into the chocolate half of his bowl of ice cream between spoonfuls from her own. He would never admit it to her, but it was the only reason he ever took any chocolate at all. All was apparently as well and as comfortable as it had been all night. Mark, though, felt uneasy and unsettled.

………

Breakfast was another opportunity for alone time; Mark had to be up a lot earlier than his brother and sister-in-law did, and Bridget had taken to joining him since Peter and Augusta had come to stay. This morning, though, Bridget seemed to be feeling particularly playful. She set her coffee down, plucked his newspaper from his hands, and straddled his lap, running her fingers back through his hair, smiling in a smug sort of way, apparently studying his face.

"What's this?"

"It's me wanting a morning snog," she informed him, tracing a finger over his brow and cheek, then teasing him with light kisses to his lips and the corner of his mouth.

"I have to go to work," he said, not particularly convincingly.

"I know." She chuckled throatily, teasing him with the very tip of her tongue. "Just a snog."

"Mmm, well, if it's just a snog, then—"

With that she began to kiss him quite passionately; he returned every kiss with equal passion. His hands stroked up her back then down again, traversing the waistband of her pyjama bottoms to grasp her backside and pull her to him.

"Naughty," she whispered breathily. "Don't write cheques you can't cash, mister."

It was his turn to chuckle as he kissed her again.

The moment was shattered by the softest, quietest, most timid throat-clearing Mark had ever heard. Mark broke away from the kiss, and to his horror found his brother standing there in the doorway behind Bridget. He was fully dressed in a suit and ready to leave the house. Slowly Mark slipped his hands out of her pyjamas, though he knew his brother had already seen.

"Good, er, morning," Peter said stoically.

Bridget had flushed bright red, and covered her face with her hand, muttering an 'Oh God' into his ear.

"Um," said Mark. "Good morning."

"I guess I neglected to mention I start at Brightlings this morning, didn't I?" he asked. Mark would swear Peter was fighting a laugh, yet the last thing in the world Peter would have thought was that this was in any way amusing.

"I guess," said Mark.

"Just wanted a little coffee," he said.

Bridget's muffled voice came from next to his ear. "There's some in the pot."

"Thank you."

He poured a cup, then headed out of the kitchen.

After a moment, Bridget asked, "Is he gone?"

"Yes," said Mark. "But you do realise he could still see you despite your hiding your face."

"Oh, hush," she said.

"And this was entirely your fault."

"My fault, Mr Put-Your-Hands-Down-My-Bottoms?" she asked, but she was smiling, then began laughing as she traced a finger over his brow again. "Well, surely he realises that we kiss. Have sex. Et cetera."

"Well, yes," said Mark, "but the kitchen's not the expected venue."

She raised a brow. "That hasn't stopped you before." Gingerly she then rose from his lap, kissing him briefly on the lips, cupping his face in her hand. "Have a nice day at work."

As she strode out of the kitchen with her coffee in hand, he could not keep his eyes off of where his hands had most recently been.

………

The following Sunday, the four of them got into Peter's new car for a jaunt out to the Darcys' for brunch. They had not all yet been there for a visit together, and when Mark suggested it, their mother was elated at the prospect.

Upon their arrival, Mark discovered another couple had also been invited: Bridget's parents. Mark greeted them as he always had, though his thoughts were in overdrive trying to think of a way to let them know about the change in living situation. It was not something Bridget or Mark had wanted to do by phone, so they hadn't, and they hadn't a chance to see her parents face to face until this moment.

As they made their way to the dining room, he pulled Bridget aside. "Darling," he said, "we need to tell them."

He did not need to elaborate further to her, with the way she began to wring her hands. "I know," she said. "I didn't expect to be blindsided today."

"It will be all right," he said. "We can do it together. Strength in numbers. Besides, it's not like we're telling them you've borne us twins and didn't think to mention it."

She chuckled; she knew as well as he did the levels of denial her mother was in about the fact they had a sex life. "True."

Further discussion was halted by the sound of an hysterical screech from the room they were approaching.

"'Together'? What do you mean, 'together'?"

When they arrived to where lunch would be served—and to where, Mark was convinced, a murder would soon occur—he saw that Pam Jones was staring to the pair of them with narrowed eyes. "Peter says you're living at Mark's house, Bridget. That you're moved in. Is this true?"

Mark looked to Bridget, who was intently studying the floor at her feet. He decided to bear the brunt of Pam's anger himself. "Yes, Mrs Jones. It's true."

"For how long?" she asked.

"Since…" He glanced to Bridget. "Since we returned from Thailand."

"What?!" she exploded, balled fists on her hips. "But that… June… more than two months ago!"

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "I did not until recently know that—"

"Bridget!" Pam shrieked, turning her fury on her daughter. "What are you thinking? Is this the way I raised you? You—"

"Pamela," interrupted Colin, stopping her rant in its tracks, "it's not 1950. Let it go." He walked forward and patted Mark's shoulder. "Things are going well?"

"Very," he said, slightly stunned. Pam still looked rather disgruntled and as if she wished she could will Mark dead.

"Glad to hear." Colin smiled. "Well. Lunch awaits."

As they circled around to find their seats at the table, Peter came up to him, visibly disconcerted. "I am so sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't realise they still didn't know. I never would have said a thing."

"Well, cat's out of the bag now," said Mark, wishing his brother had erred on the side of caution, but grateful and relieved all the same that they now knew. "It'll be fine."

As Peter continued on, Mark realised he was not upset so much as coolly angry. "If you'd kept your word, I never would have been put in this awkward position."

"I'm sorry," said Mark, startled. "We haven't seen her parents since—"

"I assumed you know how to work a telephone, Mark."

The sharpness of the comment left Mark without a reply; Peter then turned away to take his seat by his wife, apologising again for inadvertently raising such a fuss at what was to be a pleasant brunch. In short order the heavy atmosphere lifted; Pam seemed to have forgotten all about her upset in hearing Peter regale them with tales of the new house they'd be moving into within the week. Mark did not participate much in conversation, and he sensed that Bridget knew his discomfort even if she didn't know precisely why, placing a reassuring hand on his knee, which he quickly covered with his own hand to squeeze her fingers in a show of appreciation.

After the meal, with the drive back to London ahead of them, the four of them began to say their goodbyes. Pam was still a bit on the standoffish side, but did not neglect to hug and kiss Mark on the cheek goodbye. The drive itself was by no means in silence, though Mark again said very little. While Peter was his usual self and did not seem to harbour further anger towards Mark or Bridget, Mark still felt quite stung by his brother's words, as if he and Bridget had purposely not said anything so to set him up for embarrassment. Bridget held his hand, occasionally squeezing to remind him she was there for him, for which he was grateful, more than he could say.

After arriving home, Mark went straight for the bedroom, for a little quiet and privacy. Bridget followed him in, and it was only then he could share with her what had upset him so, but only after no small amount of coaxing on her part.

"I'm sure he's not still angry," said Bridget, her arm around his shoulders as they sat on the bed, her temple against his cheek, her fingers combing through his hair as a show of comfort.

"Oh, I'm sure he's not," said Mark. "He said his piece and now he's moved on now that he's let me know in no uncertain terms that I've disappointed him… well, Bridget, some things just don't change."

"I'm sure you've got it all wrong," said Bridget gently. "He was embarrassed, and he lashed out unfairly. I'm sure he will apologise."

"I wish I were as sure," said Mark, considering that technically, Peter was right.

………

As the evening drew on, Mark began to feel himself again, and supper turned out to be perfectly pleasant; he and Peter discussed the schedule by which they'd be moving into their house, while the women went off outside for some air. Mark suspected Bridget wanted to sneak a fag. By the time they all retired for bed, Mark was able to sleep well enough, reassured that his brother did not in fact harbour any lasting hostility towards him for the faux pas.

Mark decided to work at home the next morning. He was surprised when there was a knock on his door at about ten, because as far as he knew, no one else was home. "Yes, come in."

It was Peter. "Have you a moment?"

"Of course, come in."

Peter shut the door behind himself, almost looked a little hesitant. "I wanted to talk to you about yesterday."

Mark felt his stomach drop, suddenly sure he was in for another round of censure. "Okay."

"It would seem that the women in our lives do the communicating that perhaps we should be doing ourselves."

Mark drew his brows together. "I don't understand."

"Bridget and Augusta. Bridget told her how she was worried at how upset you were. She then confided in me." He paused. "Mark, I did not realise how much I… I hurt you with my comment yesterday. I should have held my tongue until I was not feeling quite so exposed. I am sorry."

Mark could not have been more stunned had his brother announced he was leaving Augusta to marry the Queen herself. For his brother to admit a mistake, to apologise in such a fashion, was pretty much unheard of. "It's all right," said Mark. "I just did not want to have that conversation with her parents over the telephone."

Peter nodded. "You're right, of course. I should not have assumed."

Mark was doubly stunned. "Well, as they say," said Mark, "'All's well that ends well.'"

Peter smiled. "Now for the second reason I've come to see you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "I need an envel—"

Just then, Mark's mobile rang. It was a client whose case he had just taken, and whom he had been having a devil of a time reaching. "I have to take this." He rose with the phone in his hand, finger poised over the Talk button. "Upper left drawer. Please take what you need." Peter nodded.

The conversation was brief but productive, and when he ended the call, he realised his brother was still there, serious expression on his face, envelope and postage in one hand… and a small velvet box in the other.

"Mark?" he asked. "What's this?"

It was obvious from Peter's tone that he knew full well what 'this' was. Mark pulled his lips tight.

"How long have you had it?"

Mark glanced down. "Two months."

"Mark," he said, his tone scolding. Mark was suddenly sure Peter thought a union with Bridget was a big mistake, despite claiming to like her. He thought the truth of Peter's feelings was about to come out.

Mark would be surprised yet again.

"What the bloody hell are you waiting for?"

"What?" Mark asked, rather stupidly.

"To give this to her!" he expounded, smiling at last. "Are you waiting for an engraved invitation from God Himself? Or were you just going to keep it in your office for the rest of your days?"

Mark slowly came to his senses. Peter was urging him to propose. It still didn't mean the other shoe wasn't poised to drop; after all, it wasn't proper to live together before marriage, so it was all too proper to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

"I had to keep it in here so she wouldn't find it," he said, his tone flat in his continued shock.

"Mark," he said again, exasperatedly. "Why haven't you asked her?"

"Because I'm afraid she'll say no."

Peter chuckled. "Oh, Mark. How like you. Afraid of rejection."

"Peter—" he began.

"Mark," he interrupted. "Tonight I'm taking Augusta out to dinner. If I don't come back here and find that ring on Bridget's finger, I'm going to get the ring and ask her for you myself." He wondered about his own expression, uncharacteristically emotional perhaps, because Peter came over to where Mark stood and, setting down the things he'd been holding, he took his brother by the shoulders. "That girl loves you. Don't be stupid. She is not going to say no."

He thought back to his mother's advice, how he had to be brave and just tell her how he felt—and he realised she'd been right, because that had turned out so well for them. Mark found himself nodding. "I just need to be brave," he murmured.

"That's the spirit," said Peter, releasing his shoulders, then offering him a wink. "And we could have a combination housewarming and engagement party."