“Max.” His father’s eyes lit up in a way that made the tightness in Max’s chest ease the tiniest bit.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” August closed the leather-bound journal she had been holding and hurried over to hug him.
“Good afternoon, Papa. August.”
His sister smiled up at him, but she looked exhausted. Blue tinged the pale skin beneath her eyes, and lines bracketed her mouth where he hadn’t noticed any before. She had worked at Crenshaw Iron since she had been old enough to insist upon it. At first Papa had humored her interest in numbers and analysis, but she had proven herself to be more than capable. She had come to London with their parents to help build the European branch of their business, and she had excelled at the task. Max had a sinking suspicion, however, that she was as overworked as Papa, a condition that had likely worsened as she had shouldered their father’s workload while he convalesced.
“What are the doctors saying?” Max asked, releasing August and walking over to the bedside to squeeze his father’s disturbingly frail shoulder.
Papa gave a low cough. “You know doctors. What do they ever say? Rest, take in fresh air.” He shrugged. “I’ll be better in a few days.”
August’s brows drew together in concern. “You will improve, Papa, I have no doubt about it, but it will take weeks to recover from the attacks.”
“Attacks? There was more than the one?” Alarm caused Max to speak louder than he meant to.
Mother gave a soft mew of displeasure and left the room, as if the conversation was too much for her. August put a calming hand on his back.
“It was only the one at Farthingtons’ soiree,” Papa said.
“We were all at a party hosted by the Earl of Farthington when the attack happened,” August explained. To her father, she said, “No, the doctors are certain you had another two days later.”
Papa waved his hand as if the event wasn’t worth mentioning.
Her mouth turned down in displeasure. “We were home, and he was supposed to be resting. But he was drowning in reports and correspondence that he had sent over from the office behind my back. He had another episode.”
“It wasn’t as severe as the first one,” Papa interrupted.
Ignoring him, August went on. “The doctors called it angina pectoris. Essentially, it’s pain of the heart caused by periodic loss of oxygen and is a sign of heart disease. They suspect there is an accumulation of fatty tissue compressing the organ.”
“I am as healthy as an ox.”
“An ox with a heart problem,” August shot back but walked over and gave him a kiss on his cheek to soften the words. “I have to go now. Evan sends his regrets for not accompanying me. He had a meeting with his estate manager. We have a dinner to attend, but we’ll stop by and check on you on our way home.” To Max she said, “We can talk more tonight, but let’s have breakfast in the morning to discuss how to proceed.”
Max agreed, and she departed, leaving the room feeling eerily still in her wake. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the chime of the doorbell downstairs. “Healthy as an ox?” Max said, taking a seat in the vacated chair.
One corner of the older man’s mouth turned upward, and his eyes seemed to visibly fade. “She worries too much, so I play along.”
Max’s own heart seemed to stutter in his chest at his father’s admission. “Then you did have more chest pain?”
Papa nodded. “A bit, yes. There was another time as well, but I didn’t see a need to mention it. What are the doctors going to do? They’ve prescribed plenty of rest, bone broth to thin the blood, and a tonic.” He gestured toward a brown glass bottle with a cork stopper on the nightstand.
What indeed? The energy that had spurred Max onward since he’d received the telegram about Papa’s health drained away. Running a hand across the back of his neck to ease the tightness there, he said, “I’ve arranged to stay several weeks, longer if needed. August and I can see to the office here while you rest. After that, once you’re stronger, you and Mother will return to New York with me.”
“Leave London?” His face closed in mulish disagreement. “No, I can’t see that happening until at least the spring. Perhaps longer. I’ve been working all summer on plans for India. We already have production underway to lay a thousand miles of track. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to take a trip there before returning to New York.”
“A trip to India?” A trip like that could kill him. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Not now, obviously. I had hoped for January, but I concede it might not be the best time, so perhaps in March before it gets too terribly hot. I’ll need to see the progress we’re making with my own eyes. The railroads will have begun by then. No, don’t give me that look; you remind me of your sisters. I will be better then.”
“Papa, this is absurd. It is far too early to discuss trips abroad. Besides, you know I don’t approve of this India expansion.”
“I am aware of your feelings on the matter.” Sighing, he added, “I suppose you’re right. There are more important matters to discuss now.”
Max’s stomach churned in warning. “No, you need to rest and recover. Everything else can wait.”
“I’m afraid this can’t.” His father’s full mustache twitched in the way that it always did when he had to deliver unpleasant news.
Max sighed and sat back in the chair, stretching his long legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles. The upholstery creaked in protest. At six feet and three inches in bare feet and with a solid frame, protesting furniture was a common problem. There was no escaping what was coming, so he might as well get comfortable. “I believe I know where this is heading, but say it anyway.”
“We need to begin thinking about the family legacy.” The lines on his face seemed to deepen.
Max had been prepared to suffer through a monologue about the need for him to take the lead in their European venture, which would have effectively taken that role from August. While Papa had been somewhat supportive of her role in the company, he considered it an indulgence and wasn’t above taking it away. Max was not prepared for this. “The what?”
“The legacy. I would like to have a hand in guiding my grandchildren through the ranks of Crenshaw Iron. I must admit that this . . . spell has given me cause to consider the fact that I may not be immortal as I had once hoped. In fact, I wonder if I will live long enough to see grandchildren through the ranks at all.”
Max swallowed against a lump threatening to clog his throat. “Don’t speak that way. Violet is with child now and due to deliver in the new year. August could—”