by SL Figuhr
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Chadrick dismounted, body and mind numb. A silent, tear-stained slave led his horse away. Behind the earl, the cart containing his daughter’s body creaked down the drive toward the back entrance. He had sent instructions for only the basics to be done. In a daze, the earl stood in the entrance hall, eyes wandering over the portraits of his ancestors. He didn’t even hear the frantic steps coming his way, or notice his son beside him. Martin was talking, begging . . . something. Chadrick took a step, staggered, and collapsed to his knees on the dark wood flooring. He bent over, face hidden in the crook of his elbows, fingers laced together over his head, the sounds of his keening echoing.
Martin left his sire where he was. He didn’t relish having to tell his sister or mother the news, since it seemed his parent was incapable at the moment. They had to know before any more time passed. Firmly his feet trod upstairs, and to his sister’s guarded door. He motioned, and the man asked respectfully before opening the door:
“Is it true, my lord? Lady Caroline was found dead, in unpleasant surroundings?”
“Lukas, I forbid any mention of the conditions of my sister’s demise.”
“Yes, my lord,” the chastised slave replied, lapsing into silence as the young master entered the room.
Martin listened to the door softly shutting behind him. His sister and her body slave stood at one of her bedroom windows. They had the curtains twitched back, gossiping, craning their necks to see into the courtyard.
“Sally.” He had to call her name several times before she half-turned to him.
“Is it true?!” she asked, sounding more breathless with excitement than grief.
“Our dear elder sister is dead,” Martin confirmed.
Sally exchanged glances with her slave, then came away from the window to stand nearby, with Crystal a step behind. “But, brother, the rumors. Are they true? The slaves say she was found naked at the marquis’ mansion, in a compromising manner.”
“Sally!” Martin was shocked into shouting his sister’s name in disbelief.
She didn’t heed him, but prattled on, cheerfully, “Oh, honestly, Martin. You forget Lord Nicky made a real woman out of me. Although, according to custom, I will be unable to marry now for at least a year.”
Her words became a buzz inside his head. He felt disgust and revulsion rising in his gorge. It seemed his hand raised of its own volition, and delivered a stinging slap to the side of Sally’s face.
His sister stumbled back in shock, one hand raised to her cheek. She stared at her brother a moment in silence, then launched herself at him, a fury of slaps, bites, screams, and hair pulling. The two siblings struggled together for several moments before Martin managed to shove his sister away and to the floor, his hair and clothes in disarray from their fight. He quickly strode to the door and opened it, pausing only long enough for a final comment.
“Your marriage will still take place before the spring planting. You will remain confined to the house.”
His sister’s screams of rage followed him down the hall. Martin paused briefly inside his room to repair the damage wrought. He continued downstairs, his father still on his knees, grieving. The butler slid noiselessly into the hall.
“My lord, the slaves are gathered downstairs, as requested.”
“Thank you.”
The two men descended to the kitchen environs. The slave’s hall was crowded. Some wept silently, others gazed stone-faced, not meeting his eyes.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, or seen, my sister Caroline’s body. Your loyalty lies with the family. Caroline was murdered by bandits while on her way to visit my mother. Any other word—any other hint—of gossip to the contrary, and the perpetrator will be sold to work on the barges. Am I understood?”
Martin glared at each slave, waiting until they had all murmured acceptance, and made obeisance. “You may continue with your duties.”
He wheeled around on his heel, and stalked back upstairs as the front door bell jangled. The upstairs staff following in his wake. Martin entered the front hall as the butler let his mother in. She swept past him, face tight in fury and disgust. Lady Elizabeth stopped five steps from her husband, her lips curled up in contempt.
“How dare you?!” Her enraged screams filled the space. “How dare you! If you had just let me handle matters with our children the way I wanted, we wouldn’t be facing this disgrace. This is all your fault. You think you can just tell a pretty lie to cover it up? If our slaves know the truth, so does every other slave of our peers. Do you know how much more honor we have lost because of our daughter? How much standing?”
“Mother, please. Father couldn’t have known Caroline would disobey.”
Martin’s ears were left ringing from the force of his mother’s slap against his face.
“Don’t you dare contradict me!” she coldly informed her son before turning her fury back onto the curled figure of her husband. “I have had enough of your nonsense. You will move back to your home. You will do what I say. You will not go near that foreign whore ever again.”
Elizabeth whirled on her son, face red, contorted in fury. He felt a trickle of fear worm down his spine.
“Mother,” he tried again, “please.”
“You. You will do as you’re told. You are not old enough, nor have the aptitude, to be called the head of our house.”
Martin felt his own temper rise. He glanced down again at the pitiful spectacle his father presented, so lost in his grief he’d never heard a word his wife castigated him with.
“Carn,” the young man addressed the butler, “please have my mother escorted back to the dowager cottage, and kept there until she calms down. It seems her grief has driven her temporarily mad.”
The butler murmured a response, and signaled to the slaves who had crept toward the front hall upon hearing all the commotion.
Elizabeth gave a scream, and charged her son. He flinched, arms up while trying to ward off her attack. Strong male slaves managed to pry his mother off him before she inflicted too much damage.
Martin continued with his commands over the sounds of his mother’s shrieks. “Also, please see if the royal physician will send something to help keep her calm. Have the steward alerted to attend me at once, and see to it the house is dressed for mourning.”
Carn bowed again, beckoning to slaves and instructing them in a low voice. His mother could still be heard, albeit faintly, as the slaves dragged her out of the house by way of the back. The young man walked over to his father, and knelt beside him. He placed a hand on his sire’s shoulder, and squeezed lightly. Eventually, the keening tapered off, though his father still knelt, curled over himself.
The earl’s body slave entered the hall, and between the two men, they managed to get the elder on his feet. Sydney stumbled between the men as he was led up to his bedroom. Once inside, Martin let the body slave take over, and descended to his office. There, both the estate and house stewards waited for him. They bowed and, at his signal, seated themselves before his desk. The two men waited for Martin to speak first, out of deference for his recent loss.
He opened his mouth, then closed it several times, searching for the words he wanted. “I’m not sure what you may have heard concerning my sister’s death,” he began.
The young man mentioned what he wanted the official record to be. Caroline would be interred in the family vault as soon as the body was made ready. The affair would be private. The household staff would observe a two-week mourning period. His sister’s wedding would not be put off. Lastly, he sent a note to the advisor.
* * *
Martin stood nervously in the entrance hall, snow swirling inside from the open front door. A week had passed since Caroline’s death, cremation, and interment of the ashes. The door slave waited for the elegantly cloaked figure to mount the steps. Behind, in the street, a groom waited with the advisor’s horse. The woman paused just inside the threshold.
“Am I welcome?”
she asked.
The young lord took a step forward. “Greetings. I bid you to enter, Duchess.”
She lowered the hood of her cloak, then unfastened the garment before handing it over to a slave. “I heard of your recent misfortunes. Again, please accept my condolences on the loss of your sister.”
“Thank you,” Martin replied with a wan smile.
She gave a regal inclination of her head. “Is there anything I may be of assistance with during your mourning?”
“I should hope so. My father has taken Caroline’s death hard. He will not respond to any of us, even his own body slave.”
“I am not sure how much help I will be, if he won’t respond to his own kin.”
Martin paused, not sure how to say what he wanted without insulting her. “I am hoping that your . . . special relationship . . . with my father will enable you to reach him.”
“Very well. I shall try my best, but I make no promises.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. If you will please follow me.” The young man turned and mounted the stairs. He had to glance back to make sure the duchess followed, so silent were her steps.
Martin paused outside his father’s room and knocked. There was no answer, so he turned the knob and swung the door inward. Most of the drapes remained closed, except for one pair. The outline of a chair blocked the bulk of the winter sun. Illyria placed her hand on the young man’s arm.
“Please, let me try alone.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words, and then swept inside the dim room.
His lordship closed the door, then slumped down against the wall beside it. He didn’t know what else to try to breach the self-imposed exile his father wallowed in.
Illyria paused inside the earl’s bedroom, taking a moment to scan the surroundings with her senses. She could feel the regret, shame, and grief which permeated the room. It’s good I drank from Eron before coming, else I would not be able to tolerate so much direct sunlight.
Her footsteps were noiseless; she paused by the side of the chair. Sydney stared blankly out the window. He had a view of the back garden, stables, and the mountain rising behind all. Since the death of his eldest, the earl had closeted himself away from everyone. The duchess noted how suddenly the earl had aged from his grief. The silver wings at his temples had grown upward, so that only a thin strip of black hair remained on top of his brow. His once-piercing sapphire eyes had a dull, grayish look to them, and had sunk slightly into his orbits. What wrinkles he possessed stood out as deep grooves. Illyria could tell by the fit of his clothes that her lover had lost weight. She leaned close to his whiskery cheek, and gently pressed her lips to the sagging flesh.
“Chadrick.” She spoke low, power flowing behind her words. “Will you come back from your grief, just for a moment, to speak with me?”
The duchess caressed his brow with her left hand, and gently squeezed her right over his hand, which felt delicate and knobby, where it lay on top of the armrest. She kept up her low flow of words, a murmur for his ears alone.
“My love. My champion. Come back to your family, to me. Come back to us.”
She noted tears which leaked from the corners of his eyes, and his hand trembled briefly under hers. Illyria tried once more, not wanting to break the tenuous connection his mind had with reality.
“Chadrick . . . my love . . . Chadrick.”
The earl took in a long, quivering breath, his eyelids squeezed shut, then opened. He turned his head toward her, slowly, as if in physical pain.
The vamp kept her expression serious, tinged with sadness. “My love, Chadrick, I have not the words to express how sorry I am for the loss you and your family bear. Your son is so worried about you, he sent for me. Shall I stay? Or would you rather I go?”
His eyes roamed her face in a manner suggesting he didn’t know where to focus. The earl’s dry lips parted, and his tongue darted out in an effort to wet them before he rasped out, “Why did you wait so long to come? Do I mean so little to you? Does our love?”
“I do not deserve your forgiveness, nor your love, for staying away when I knew you would need me most. I only thought to spare your family my presence.”
“My family?” Hurt clouded his eyes, crumpled his face. “My family?”
She waited patiently by his side, kneeling so they were eye level. His hand trembled under hers. He began to cackle, then ended in choking coughs. She turned, spotting a water pitcher and goblet nearby. She poured and brought it over to him, raising the rim to his lips and tilting it so the earl could drink. He wrapped his trembling hands around hers, then let her set the empty goblet back on the side table.
“I am done with them. I don’t care what Elizabeth thinks, nor says. I will not suffer a moment more with her malice and hatred of me. You claim you love me, yet you abandoned me when I needed you most.”
He abruptly withdrew his hands from hers, and turned his face away so he once more stared out the window.
Illyria stood, feeling his despair, self-loathing, and rage boiling inside of him.
She hesitated a moment, then withdrew a scroll from inside the bodice of her dress. The duchess gently laid it down on Sydney’s lap. “You shall always have a place in my heart, and home, for however long you wish,” she replied with a last kiss to his lips before leaving.
* * *
Martin looked up from his contemplation of his clasped hands, and thoughts, at the gentle shutting of his father’s bedroom door.
“Walk with me, please,” the duchess requested.
He scrambled up, the plea for information unspoken in his eyes. They began the long trek back to the front hall.
“Your father roused enough to speak briefly with me. It seems the manner of your sister’s death has proven to be more than he can handle. I am aware now is a poor time to speak of your father’s and my personal matters. I feel I owe you the courtesy of informing you nonetheless. How aware are you of the state of your parents’ marriage?”
“Enough to realize he is miserable, and as the years pass, my mother becomes less and less able to tolerate his presence and attentions. And her . . . rejection . . . of him leads him to find temporary, physical solace in other women.”
She nodded once, sharply. “Your father has requested on more than one occasion I procure a divorce from His Majesty for him, so he may be quit of your mother. Please do not think it is his grief speaking.”
Martin swallowed before he spoke, weighing what he wanted to say as they continued walking to the stairs. “Has he mentioned . . . I mean, what will he . . .”
“Chadrick did not tell me. I did not ask. I know your mother opposes your father’s wishes. I am telling you this now, so you may prepare your family.”
“Now? He spoke of that now?” Martin’s voice rose in disbelief and disgust, stopping and staring at the duchess.
“No, the king has finally signed the divorce decree, and asked me to deliver it in my official role as advisor.”
In his current state, the young man didn’t think to censure his next words. “My sister is dead, her manner of passing a disgrace to the family name, and you think now is the time to bring more dishonor upon us all? I am beginning to think my mother was correct in her estimation of you.”
A thin smile from the duchess, a glinting of dark amusement in her eyes, made Martin realize what he had said.
“Thank you for your honesty. Your family doesn’t have to like, or approve of it; know that it has happened.” A thread of steel entered the duchess’s voice.
The two paused at the bottom of the stairs, facing each other. Martin clutched the newel post. Did she really not understand the trouble his father’s divorce would unleash?
“There is no happy ending, Martin, not for either of your parents.”
“Then why do this? Why make Sally and me suffer through the fallout? Through the social stigma? No one divorces!”
“I fear your father’s health will deteriorate, and he will let himself die rather than remain unhappy a
moment more.”
“And my mother? What of her health? What of her feelings?”
“Even if I had never become involved with your father, someone else would have. How long such a state of affairs would have lasted before coming to this point, I do not know.”
Martin barely heard her replies, his hands white knuckled fists. “You are destroying my family!”
“No, that happened long before I arrived. I am merely finishing what was begun the day your parents married.”
“You—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” she tutted, “some states are worse than death. Your father is suffering through one now. May you never be brought to such a position as he.”
“Vile! Home wrecker!”
“You should ask your mother a question. If Chadrick was the type of man she wants him to be according to her view, would she enjoy her life lived the way Lady Anne did? If she says aught but yes, then she is a hypocrite.”
His lordship’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Lady Anne was forced to endure abuse, and endless humiliations, and now she is dead! I find your comparison distasteful.”
“Perhaps, yet it is true. Would your mother rather be dead instead of divorced? Or a widow, after she finishes driving your father to his grave. Think about it.”
“I beg of you, do not do this to my family, not now.”
“But it has already happened. I need only inform your mother.”
“Stay away from her.”
“I cannot ignore a command from our king.” She smiled gently. “I have already held off on performing my duty. Your mother will not admit me, but her slave can accept the document.”
“I thought Lord Nicky the cruelest person in the kingdom, but you are not so much different.”