Wherefore Art Thou.

by Melanie Thurlow

  She didn’t consider herself worthy of such elegance, particularly when she was in her state, and the house was in its state. But here it was, nonetheless, and she wasn’t the type to turn her nose up at food. And certainly not at food that smelled so delicious.

  She barely refrained herself from sticking her nose in each dish.

  However, her merriment quickly wore off as the silence of the room sunk in. There were two footmen and a maid left waiting on her, the housekeeper coming in and out, and yet she felt alone, like this was a sport, only she was not the spectator.

  It felt like a feast made for a king. And like the king, she felt she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, stuffed into a role that no one else could understand. She just wanted to talk, to laugh, to forget for a little while.

  After the third course was taken away and replaced with the entrée, Isabelle could take it no longer.

  “How do you do this evening?” she asked her server.

  “Very well, my lady,” the crisply dressed young man answered.

  “What is your name?”

  “Fred, my lady.”

  “Fred, it is nice to meet you. Tell me, do you like Mock Duck?”

  The footman looked at her queerly for but a moment before answering, “I do, my lady.”

  “Then won’t you join me? And the others too. I’m sorry, I don’t know all of your names,” she laughed.

  “Tracy, my lady,” said the maid.

  “Travis,” said the second footman.

  “Pleased to meet you all. Now, please, sit.”

  A nervous look was shot between them, before Fred answered, “It’s a generous offer, my lady, but I’m afraid we cannot.”

  “Oh, come now. What will happen to all this food? It will go to waste if it’s left for me to eat it all. As many as possible should be able to enjoy it.”

  “Yes, but it’s not our station,” Tracy spoke up. “We only dine below stairs.”

  “And who will tell? Certainly not I.” Then adding an admittedly childish plea, she added, “Please, won’t you join me and be my company for this extravagant meal?”

  Another look made its way between the trio before three heads bobbed in unison, three blushing smiles shone, and three chairs were pulled out of their places to afford them to sit. Where they sat rigid and quiet.

  Oh, it was going to take some work, but Isabelle had the determination to open them up.

  She may never make true friends of the servants here, but they would be as close to that as possible.

  *****

  Desmond couldn’t sleep. And tonight, it wasn’t the nightmares, the flashbacks, the memories that kept him awake.

  No, instead, it was the noise.

  Noise? In his house?

  It was absurd. It should be silent. At least, as silent as an old, creaky house could possibly be. Instead, it was filled with noise.

  Desmond knew that, as he was yanking on the wrinkled shirt he had left discarded on the floor and aggressively pulling on his pants, that he may be overreacting slightly, however, he couldn’t slow the vicious thrum of his blood rushing angrily through his veins. He had tried. He had laid in bed, attempting to ignore the pitter-patter of footsteps below, despite the late hour, and the mumbling of voices. He attempted to count, to breathe. But the exercises did nothing to put him at ease. And each second that he waited, his frustration multiplied. And when an eruption of laughter exploded through the floorboards, his reaction could not be helped.

  It was as if his servants were having a party down there.

  Was this how it was going to be? Where were Mr. and Mrs. Long? They should be handling the situation. Instead, Desmond was left to the task.

  Someone was going to pay for waking him at such an hour.

  What hour was it anyway? Desmond happened to wonder as he made his way toward his door. He opened the door and lit his candle on the singly lit lantern in the hall and brought it back to light up the clock in his room. It was encroaching on half past eleven.

  He stormed through the house, following the noise of laughter until he was outside of the dining room doors. Not pausing to wait, to listen, to simmer, he extended one muscular arm, flinging the doors open wide and stepped through them.

  All sound previously emerging from the room evaporated, leaving not even a trail or trickle of laughter. It was immediately followed by the scraping of chairs against the wood floors as a group of five servants stood from their places seated at the table. His table.

  That is to say, all but one rose.

  He stared down to the end of the table, ready to incinerate the maid so rude as to not stand for her master, only to find not a maid in the place of honor, but a lady dressed rather dishonorably.

  What was that she was wearing? A nightgown and robe?

  Desmond struggled not to stare, not to let his eyes travel downward from her face.

  He pinched his lips and hardened his eyes, forcing them to make contact with each of his servants individually, as he barked, “What is this?”

  There was a slight metallic tinkling as the lady set down her utensils, drawing his attention. In her eyes he saw a fire, defiance. “I was feeling a bit famished and—”

  Desmond cut her off short, with, “When one is hungry, their mouth is generally filled with food and therefore silent and yet, somehow, my house is rumbling from the explosion of your voice.”

  He was shaking. He could feel himself turning red. He felt ready to explode.

  “This is unacceptable. Aside from the annoyance, I am more disturbed by the lack of respect that is being paid in this room,” he said, addressing his servants. “This is a well-born lady, not your equal. You are to serve her, to see to her wants and needs, but you are not her equals and you are not to eat with her, just as you are not to eat with any member of the gentry. Is that understood?” His voice rose with every word that spewed from his mouth, until it was a bellow that practically made the crystal ring.

  He felt their fear, their guilt, and their submittal. But their silence was not enough. Their silence only made his own anger more apparent. Desmond’s jaw set in uncontrolled anger, his hands clenching into meaty fists. He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t even try. He needed to explode.

  Reaching for the closest object, Desmond picked up a chair and threw it to the side, its legs cracking as the impact caused it to practically disintegrate.

  “Is that understood?” he screamed.

  “Yes, my lord,” repeated five solemn times as the servants each apologized, swearing their understanding while shivering in their uniforms, but it in no way lowered Desmond’s anger.

  He was furious. Things like this got to servants’ heads. When rules and tradition weren’t thoroughly maintained and followed, they would slowly begin to dissipate completely, the lines blurring and, soon, all control would be lost.

  The fact was that he’d come to like his servants in the last two days. However, whether he liked them or not, they were his servants nonetheless and could not be treated as anything more.

  He wanted to put them back into their proper place, but the thought scared even him.

  He opened his mouth to dismiss them before he threw anything worse than a chair, when another, decidedly feminine, mouth opened and spoke instead. “I apologize for the disturbance, my lord, and for their behavior, however, it is entirely my fault and I take complete responsibility. I practically begged them for the company. It is not their fault, but mine.”

  Even from across the room Desmond could see that she was practically trembling in fear, her eyes falling to her plate as they swam with tears, the defiance from before gone completely.

  She might as well have run him down with a carriage and four, that’s what her demeanor did to him. For she wasn’t merely sorry for what had happened, she was afraid.

  She was afraid of him. Just the same as his servants now were.

  He supposed she had every right to be, but it hit him hard nonetheless.

 
; He’d spent years in fear, wondering if he would survive until the next day or if he’d be put out of his misery. It was no life, no way to live.

  Desmond wanted to apologize, admit he was an ass, but found that he couldn’t force himself to undermine his own authority. He couldn’t pull her into his arms and ask for forgiveness. Not that she would even allow him to pull her into his arms at this point.

  Not that he even wanted to do so.

  In a matter of seconds, Desmond had transformed from being in a fit of rage to being entirely afraid of himself.

  He looked down at his hands trembling at his sides.

  What was he becoming?

  Without another word, barely breathing, Desmond turned and marched out of the room, up the stairs, back under the covers on his bed, and listened for the laughter to return. It did not and, by the devastated look in her eyes, he wasn’t sure if it ever would.

  Chapter 17

  The color red filled his night with sights more horrifying than the darkest nightmares. Spilled blood covered his hands, his uniform, the ground around him, the boy in his hands.

  Boy. He was old enough to serve in the King’s army, and too young to die. He had a whole life ahead of him, a family who needed him, and a girl at home waiting for him.

  Blood gurgled from the boy’s mouth as he tried to speak. Struggling for the air he needed, the boy hiccupped a breath, spitting a geyser of blood upwards, before he finally found the air to speak.

  “Find her. Tell her,” he choked each syllable. “I love her.”

  The boy jerked, pulling out a paper from his jacket and placed it in Desmond’s hand. Looking down, he saw the portrait of a beautiful blonde girl with three bloody fingerprints smudged across her.

  “No,” Desmond said. “No, you’re going to tell her yourself when we get out of here.”

  Cannon fire rumbled the ground beneath them. Dirt—and God knows what else—fell down as rain, and Desmond leaned over to better shield his soldier. There wasn’t much more he could do. For anyone. The ambush had taken his company by surprise. And with half of his men lying lifeless on the cold December earth, it was unlikely any of them would remain standing much longer.

  “I’m dying.”

  “No, you’re not, Lance Corporal.”

  “Tell her. Please.” On the last syllable, the boy began to choke on his own blood. His green eyes widening as he realized this struggle would be his last.

  “I promise.”

  Body convulsing, Desmond held him tighter, holding his stare, whispering softly to him so that something other than the sound of muskets firing would welcome the boy into death. “Shhh. It’s all right. It’ll be all right. You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

  All too soon, the struggle was over and the boy lay still. Desmond felt something cold on his cheek and reached up to swat it away, only to realize he was crying. He was crying over a boy he barely knew, the youngest soldier to ever serve under him, barely a day over eighteen. The youngest he’d ever seen die.

  Desmond’s scream was inhuman, filled with a torture only a truly broken soul could understand.

  He couldn’t think, of vengeance or of anything. All he could think about was the lifeless body he held. But the smoke from the guns was burning his eyes, and the constant cannon fire was reverberating the ground he sat on, and he couldn’t ignore his duty.

  He had to get up. He had to fight.

  The corded muscles in his neck stretched as he looked toward the sky that wasn’t there, blocked by tree cover and smoke.

  With one more squeeze and another scream from his heart, he laid the boy down and closed his eyes. Then, slowly, he rose on shaky legs, picked up his rifle, and joined the rest of his men behind the fallen trunk of a large tree, in a fruitless attempt to ward off the enemy.

  Only this night, the enemy weren’t the French.

  This night, the enemy marching toward him was the boy. And he wasn’t holding a gun, spitting out sparks and smoke and the promise of death. He was shooting words, accusations.

  “How could you?” he screamed.

  Desmond tripped backwards over his retreating feet, as memory and nightmare collided.

  Faster than his fall, the boy soldier leaped into the air, grabbing Desmond by the collar and holding him upright. He could taste the blood the boy spewed into Desmond’s face as he spat the words. “How could you lie to me? How could you break your promise?”

  “I didn’t. I swear.”

  Desmond watched himself surrender under a cloud of hysteria.

  “You did! You promised to tell her I loved her. You broke your promise.”

  Desmond raised his hands, shaking his head. “I didn’t. I was going to, but then—”

  “You couldn’t even bury me,” the boy shot, throwing Desmond backwards.

  As his back collided with the hard forest ground, he woke with the boy’s venom in his mouth, but it felt as though he had died. In the pitch blackness, he was almost able to believe that this was his Hell. But soon his body was shivering as the coldness of the room cooled the sweat that covered his naked form and weaved its way into every cell of his body.

  Not that it mattered. He couldn’t breathe and that certainly took precedence over a mere chill.

  Desmond felt his body convulse, and all he could imagine was that young boy’s body bucking in his arms, his lungs thirsting for air that wouldn’t come.

  A tear slid down his already soaked face. He was going to die. This was the moment, buck naked, covered in his own sweat. Murdered by a nightmare.

  If only he had done as the boy had requested, none of this would have been happening.

  If only he had not been so traumatized by the war so that he could have carried out the boy’s dying wish. Even if it was eight years too late.

  But he hadn’t. He had been selfish in his own needs and had ignored all else. And now it was coming back to haunt him.

  He strained, the muscles across his broad chest expanding in the struggle, until he wheezed a painful exhale and released a sob that rocked him to the pits of his soul where he tried desperately to bury his memories. It was immediately followed by a twin breath, a sound most dreadful. And before he knew it, he was convulsing once more, his hot tears stinging his cold flesh as he felt himself finally release all the pain that he’d never been able to face.

  *****

  She didn’t know at what hour she woke. All the candles had been turned out and there wasn’t even the light of the moon to shine upon her small clock. But when she heard the thud, followed in quick succession by a paranormal cry, she couldn’t merely stay abed.

  Isabelle was on her feet in seconds, her arms stuffed into the robe that felt much too thin in the cold night and her toes bundled in the wool socks she’d slept in. She padded cautiously down the hallway, a hand on the wall her guide in the dark, until she came to a door. Her fingertips told her it was wooden, the paint chipping, and her heart told her there was a man in need on the other side. A man she knew had demons. A man she learned this past night had a temper to fear. A man just as alone in this world as she was.

  But they didn’t have to be alone…

  She didn’t wait to knock. She didn’t think he would let her in if he heard it, and she doubted that he would hear it. Turning the knob, she pushed the door inward and stepped within the walls of a room she was not permitted to be in. She rubbed her hands on her arms as she followed the sound of the sobs until she could feel his presence more than she could see it.

  “Oh,” she sighed, dropping to her knees beside him.

  Reaching a hand out towards him, she was relieved to find herself stroking the hard muscles of his back. His bare back.

  “It’s okay… Lord Thornton,” she said, jaggedly piecing together a comforting sentence. Lord Thornton hardly seemed like it would feel a comfort, but she had only used his given name a few times as it was and it seemed wrong to do so now.

  “Are you all right?” She traced his faint shadow in the dar
k, moving her hand up to his shoulder, squeezing gently in what she hoped felt like reassurance, what she herself would have wanted.

  “What the—” he said, moving swiftly up and away from her, changing the atmosphere from chilled to dense as he woke.

  “Lord Thornton, it is I,” she said, coming to stand before him. “I heard you, and I—”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he barked, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her back so that she was held an arm’s length away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to ignore the fear gnawing away at her belly as his fingers bit into her. “You were having a night terror. I was merely trying to help.” She felt her voice quiver, even as she tried to be strong.

  “Well, don’t. Now get out!” She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but she could imagine it by the sound of his voice.

  Isabelle swallowed and stumbled back, remembering his temper earlier in the evening. She could picture his face turning red, his hands clenching into fists, his temper boiling over and his body lashing out.

  She shouldn’t have come. She could see that now.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she turned to walk away and walked promptly into the open door.

  Her shriek was muffled by her hands that rose to cover her mouth and nose.

  The pain was searing and metallic, beginning at her nose and drifting it’s numbing reach around her neck.

  She tasted the warm blood on her tongue, and fought the urge to release the tears that were filling her sockets.

  Wasn’t this just fine.

  As if she wasn’t covered in enough questionable bruises already. Why not add a few more, for good measure?

  Would she ever catch a break?

  Within seconds a candle was lit. Isabelle turned, squinting, toward the sudden light to find Lord Thornton’s muscular form cast out of the shadows.

  “Oh my lord,” she shrieked, turning entirely away, her eyes enlarged, so much so, that she feared they would pop right out of her head.

  He was naked. Completely and totally nude.

  She’d never seen a man so… unclothed. Well, she supposed she had... Details.

  “Apologies, my lord. I’ll be leaving.” And since her way was now faintly lit, she did not, this time, collide with the door. Instead, she ran down the hall, clutching the fabric of the silk skirts of her nightgown and robe, and closed herself in her bedchamber without ever looking back to catch his reaction.