If Lady Alyse could face this, could see it simply as a testament to the foolishness of the past, and still speak of it that way, even after having been held here by the madman, surely he could do no less? He was decided – he would push the dreams aside, would not allow their terrible false message to hold him trapped in the war. He did not quite know how to make that change yet, but he was determined that he would.
He gathered up the lanterns, and left the room, firmly shutting the ancient door behind him. He would arrange for a lock to be fitted on it, so that no-one else could misuse its contents. In the courtyard above, the pale winter sun warmed him, and the world seemed a better place.
~~~~~
“Will you come to dinner at Lord Chester’s? I am sure that Lord Kevin would be pleased to see you.”
The Dowager Duchess persisted in sounding hopeful, in the face of Alyse’s total disinterest in anything social.
“No thank you Mother, I will just stay here and draw. I really have no interest in conversation at present.”
“Perhaps you would if you tried it again! You have been a figure of gloom ever since you came back from Tillingford Castle. Your hand is healed – why do you persist in this rejection of everything?”
Alyse sighed, and closed her journal, looking up at her mother.
“Because I want to. Because I am just not interested in any of the people we commonly socialise with. Because I am tired of you thrusting eligible men at me.”
“I don’t ‘thrust’ them! I simply introduce you, in the hope that one of them captures your interest. Is that too much to hope for?”
“At present, yes. I feel a megrim coming on. I am going to lie down and rest.”
With that, Alyse stood, and left the room, conscious that she was being rude and abrupt, and that her mother was actually being quite reasonable – but she could not stand to have that conversation, again. Once behind the locked door of her rooms, she settled into her favourite chair in her sitting room, and opened her sketch journal again. Flipping through the pages, she looked at what she had drawn, since that terrible day in the cellars of Tillingford Castle.
Every second page, in that journal which he had used to such good effect as a weapon, was a sketch of Lord Tillingford. The journal seemed to her now, somehow, bound to him, infused with something of him, from the time that it had spent in his hands. Some sketches showed him as he had been, fighting for both their lives in the cellar, some as he had been in the days afterwards – withdrawn, apparently inward looking, and so distant that she had not known where to start, to attempt to reach him.
So she had taken the coward’s path, and not tried.
She was, if she were truthful with herself, also still unsure about what kind of man he really was. She could not imagine that her perception of him had been completely wrong, yet the madman’s words still echoed in her mind, suggesting that Lord Tillingford was a man who could enjoy hurting others. And when he insisted, himself, that he was a monster of some kind… what was she supposed to think?
It was as if she sought her answer in drawing him. As if her fingers might capture some essential truth about him, which her mind had not discerned.
So she drew.
He was a wonderful subject, well-shaped, with a strong face and hair that caught the light, eyes that spoke to her, and a mouth which quirked with dry humour, when he thought no-one was watching.
She picked up her pencils, and began another sketch of him, as he had been, standing in the doorway of that torture chamber, watching her, waiting his chance to intervene, and save her.
Perhaps this one would reveal the truth.
~~~~~
Hunter Barrington, Duke of Melton, was worried about his sister. She was normally bright, fairly cheerful, and happy to socialise. Yet the weeks since her ordeal beneath Tillingford Castle had seen her changed.
She moped about the house, staring off into the distance, or drawing obsessively, but showing no-one her sketches, or she walked in the gardens and nearby edge of the forest, drifting as if in a dream.
He had some suspicions about why she was being so uncharacteristically glum – suspicions he would not attempt to discuss with her, for the almost certainty that she would denounce him for a meddling nuisance and storm off in a huff.
He had watched her, at Tillingford, and watched Gerry too, and some things seemed very obvious to him.
Of a certainty, they cared for each other – which was a concept to delight Hunter.
The idea of having yet another of his closest friends become a brother by marriage was wonderful – if it could be brought to happen.
But both Gerry and Alyse were stubborn, and not good at talking of their deepest concerns. He had watched, with growing frustration, in the days after their ordeal in the cellars, as they became distant and unsure, drawing away from each other.
He had hoped, when Gerry had so instinctively gathered her up and carried her upstairs in her exhausted sleep, that they might allow each other close, after their shared experience. But it had not happened. And no direct interference of his could do anything but harm. If he wanted to influence this, he would need to be subtle.
Truly subtle, not his mother’s idea of subtle, he thought, with a wry smile.
Perhaps the first step would be simply to get them in the same place again, for more than a few hours. An inspiration struck. He knew that Gerry would avoid going to his own family for Christmas, but… if Hunter invited him to Meltonbrook Chase, perhaps he would come, for he generally found Hunter’s family congenial, when the Dowager Duchess wasn’t trying to manipulate him, along with everyone else.
He would have to phrase the invitation carefully, to make it seem the most natural thing in the world that Gerry should accept, perhaps playing on the fact that Bart and Sybilla would be there too, and that they would have a chance to simply relax together, and enjoy the season. He would most definitely not be mentioning Alyse!
Hunter went to his study, and sat, drawing out a sheet of paper to write to Gerry, inviting him.
Chapter Fifteen
From the day that he had gone back down into the deep cellars, and faced his fears about the room, and himself, Gerry began to feel different. Slowly, with some days far more positive than others, he began to believe that, perhaps, he could come to forgive himself, in time. The dreams persisted, but they had less hold on him, and, more and more, he dreamed of Lady Alyse – not just as she had been, trapped in that room below, but as she had been, in his arms, dancing, light and happy, a joy to be with. And sometimes, in those dreams, he was not a monster.
On the bad days, he took the key, and went down into the cellars, to stand in that room, and remind himself that he had never been anything like the worst he could have been, that all things fade away with time, and perspective. Each time, he renewed his determination to change, to let go of his sense of guilt, and allow himself the possibility of something else in his life but memories.
To his surprise, he found himself smiling more often.
Then, one morning, he woke slowly, feeling warm and happy, drifting gently out of a dream where he danced with Lady Alyse, and she laughed in his arms, simply for the joy of being there. He lay abed for a while, savouring the sensation of a pleasant awakening, before rising to get on with the day. As he sat in the breakfast room, Shackleton came in, bringing a letter.
“Thank you, Shackleton.”
“My Lord. It came by messenger. I have sent the lad to the kitchens for some food. He was told to wait for your reply, but not to be in a hurry about it, so I will send him to rest once he’s eaten. This afternoon will be soon enough for him to set off again, if your reply is ready by then.”
“Thank you. Let the boy rest. I’ll read it, and consider the reply, once I’ve finished here.”
Gerry turned it over in his hands – Hunter’s seal. He put it to the side, idly wondering what it might be about, as he finished eating. Half an hour later, he sat in his study, reading Hunter’s let
ter.
It was an invitation. To spend Christmas at Meltonbrook Chase. His initial reaction was to shy away from the idea, to stay in his safe isolation. But… it tempted him, and, he realised, if he were to be true to his determination to change, to approach the world differently, then he would need to step outside that isolation soon. What better way to do so, than with his closest friends? To spend the holiday season with people who would not parade every eligible woman in the district in front of him, people who already knew much about the worst of him, and had not immediately turned away?
Not giving himself the chance to hesitate, he went to his desk, and wrote an acceptance of the invitation. As he sealed it, all he could think of was that he would see Lady Alyse again. The thought left him almost giddy with anticipation, as if he were sixteen again, and discovering girls for the first time.
~~~~~
The Christmas season arrived, with steady snowfall, and Gerry was glad that he had reached Meltonbrook Chase a few days before Christmas Day. To be inside, in a warm room, with pleasant friends, whilst the snow piled up outside, created a sense of wellbeing, more so than he had felt for some years. His first sight of Lady Alyse, upon his arrival, had taken his breath away. She was, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and he had almost stammered like a schoolboy when greeting her. She had been gracious, but distant – which had left him feeling lost, and questioning all of his thoughts.
Was he deluding himself, to think that she might care for him, might have the ability to look beyond the horror of his past? He should not expect anything, yet he could not stop himself from hoping. Now, as Christmas afternoon moved towards evening, he was no further ahead in knowing what she thought. She had, in the intervening few days since his arrival, mostly avoided him, although they had spoken a few times, of inconsequential things.
He wanted, desperately, to find a chance to speak to her in private, however inappropriate such a wish might be. He wished to ask after her state of mind, to assure himself that she was truly recovered from her traumatic experience.
He had no idea how he would achieve such a conversation.
He sipped his drink, listening to the conversation around him, occasionally contributing to it, thinking.
“Now that we have finished splitting much of the enclosed lands into separate pastures, we’ve been able to increase the number of good mares to breed. Next year, we’ll have many new foals on the ground, and the year or two after, the investment in both Gallowbridge House and the changes on Greyscar Keep and Dartworth Abbey lands will begin to repay handsomely.”
Bart’s enthusiasm came through clearly as he spoke, and Sybilla reached out and took his hand, smiling as she confirmed his words.
“I am quite certain that we will do far better than we had ever imagined. The quality of the stallion we have obtained is remarkable, and the mares are all beautiful – of temperament, as well as appearance!”
Gerry asked the question he had been holding for some time.
“And will the progeny of these paragons of horseflesh be for sale to your friends, or only to the wealthy of the racing community? I must confess to a desire to own one of these horses for myself.”
“Of course we will sell one to you!”
“Excellent! So – how many mares do you have now?”
The conversation rolled on, all centred around horses, for some time, until the Dowager Duchess finally spoke.
“Could we, perhaps, manage to talk of something other than horses? I, for one, have had quite enough of the topic for now! We could, instead, speak of our plans for the coming year, in other areas – such as the Season, and when we will all go up to London. For we must plan ahead – perhaps Alyse will find a man to please her, this Season.”
She sighed dramatically, her eyes on Lady Alyse, who looked, for a moment, as if she might explode into an angry retort. But then her face stilled, and she looked down. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, but a little shaky.
“Must I go to London, mother? I find that my interest in another round of Balls and soirees, full of dandified fops who only care for my dowry, does not appeal to me at all.”
“Of course you must my girl – how else will you find a husband?”
Lady Alyse chewed on her lip, in that way that affected Gerry so strongly, and sighed. He watched her, discovering that the thought of her marrying, the thought even of her dancing, with any other man, made him feel most irritated. He forced his eyes away from her, disturbed by his own thoughts, and discovered that Hunter was watching him. What, he wondered, did Hunter see – what was that half smile on his face for? He looked back to Lady Alyse, unable to prevent himself from doing so.
“Mother, I am not certain that I have any interest in finding a husband, if the men I met in London are all that I have to choose from!”
The fingers of her left hand rubbed on the back of her right hand, as if she would rub away the scars there.
He doubted she was aware of her actions.
“And where else, pray tell, might you meet a suitable man?”
“I don’t know, mother. But there are certainly none in London.”
The Dowager Duchess sighed theatrically, and let the subject drop. A silence descended on the room. After some minutes, Charles asked Gerry about his hopes for the Tillingford estate lands, come spring, and conversation began again. Lady Alyse was silent, looking unhappy. Gerry, caught in the conversation, glanced at her, worried by her quiet and seeming disinterest. Her eyes met his, and, for a moment, it was as if nothing else existed. He lost track of the conversation, until Charles’ words pulled him back to it.
Some time later, the click of the closing door caught his attention. She was gone from the room – without a word said. What was wrong? He forced himself to sit, to continue as if nothing had changed, all the while wishing nothing more than to leap to his feet and pursue her from the room.
~~~~~
Alyse was acutely aware of where Lord Tillingford was, every moment from when he alighted from his carriage at the door. She could not stop herself from watching him, wondering about what he was truly like. None of her sketches had left her feeling any closer to the truth of the man. He seemed so distant, still, and she was afraid to try to break through his reserve – what if he simply did not want anything to do with her? Yet when she met his eyes, it was as if no-one else existed.
As if his eyes spoke to her, of things far more than cold politeness. But perhaps that was just her wishful thinking.
It was painful, sitting in the same rooms, attempting to converse cheerfully, when he was so close. She wanted, somehow, to find the chance to speak to him alone, to discover what he thought and felt – no matter how inappropriate that would be. But finding such an opportunity seemed unlikely in the extreme.
And now, here it was, Christmas Day, and all her mother could find to talk about was the coming Season, and finding her a husband. She could cope with conversation about estates, and horses, but not about who she should marry. Not when the man she was almost certain she wanted was right there, in the room. But… what if she was wrong about him? It was an impossible situation!
It was a relief when her mother finally, grudgingly, let the subject drop, and the conversation moved back to safer topics. But then she felt unnecessary, with nothing to contribute to a discussion of estates and their management. She studied Lord Tillingford, seeing how much more open he seemed when he spoke of such things, and wishing that he would speak with her in such a friendly manner. Then, without warning, he turned, and caught her staring at him. She flushed, her whole body feeling warm, but their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else ceased to matter.
But he turned away, his face hardening, and she felt as if all warmth had been stolen from the room. She could not bear it. She stood, and simply walked out. She would go to the library and read, or draw – surely no-one could object to that.
The library was peaceful, and, much though she loved her family, being alone seemed preferable
in that moment. She opened her sketch journal, and looked, yet again, at all of the images she had drawn of Lord Tillingford, seeking the truth of the man. When none of them spoke to her, she selected a pencil, and began to draw again.
~~~~~
Gerry found himself unable to settle, unable to focus on the conversation, for wondering where Lady Alyse had gone, wondering what he had seen in her eyes, in that moment of connection. He was, more and more, acutely aware of how lucky his friends were, in having found wives who so suited them. Just seeing Nerissa and Hunter, Sybilla and Bart, together, he could not doubt their happiness, their ease with each other. Even Charles, it seemed, had found someone, although he did not speak of it much, as she was a widow, he believed, waiting out her mourning. He envied them all.
But, instead of simply sliding back into the bitterness which had been his refuge for so long, he found himself feeling, just a little, hopeful. It was a new sensation, but one that had been slowly growing, ever since he had decided to try to change his view of the world. But… his hope was focussed on Lady Alyse, and she seemed to have drawn away from him, more and more, since the cellars. He was discovering that hope was just as much a painful thing to live with as bitterness was.
A little while later, as the conversation slowed, the Dowager Duchess spoke up again, looking up from the embroidery she had been working on.
“I believe that it is time for us all to go and freshen up, and change for dinner. We have a large Christmas meal ahead of us, after all. Please reassemble here in two hours’ time.”
There was general agreement, and everyone left the parlour to go their separate ways. The thought of two hours sitting in his chamber, no matter how elegant the Meltonbrook Chase guest suites were, did not appeal, so Gerry decided to spend some time in the library, before going up to change.
He stepped into the room, feeling welcomed by the distinct scent of well cared for books, and closed the door behind him. For a moment, he simply stood, allowing some of the tension to leave him. Only when he stepped forward towards the armchairs and couches arrayed before the fireplace, did he realise that one of them was occupied. Lady Alyse sat on a couch, her legs curled under her, her sketch journal on her lap, utterly focused on drawing. She had not noticed his arrival in the room, so focused was she on her work. He could not resist – he moved forward, his feet soundless on the thick carpet, until he could see what she was drawing. What was on the page shocked him into a gasp – for it was an image of him, as he had been that afternoon – animated, talking. He did not know that he looked so! At the sound of his indrawn breath, she looked up, startled, then smiled, a little uncertainly, and closed the journal.
Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11) Page 13