The rapping continued, and a familiar voice broke through. The night had been cruel to Lord Beckham, and after retreating from the dinner party and its blinding lights, pastel corridors and chortling, foppish gentlemen, he had spent the night thinking on her; thinking on Lady Havenshire, thinking on Anna. And when thoughts came of his own failures, of his inadequacies, the drink began; and rarely did it stop, before the morbid dreams of crushed flowers and a wedding reception stolen by rain reminded him of how he didn't deserve a woman; not Anna, and certainly not one like the young Lady Havenshire.
"M'lord! It's quite time for afternoon tea, and you've nearly slept all the day!" Ms. Cauthfield excoriated her master through the door. Lord Beckham had little interest in facing today; nor did he very well fancy the idea of facing tomorrow, either. He pretended to ignore the old woman crowing through the door, instead shifting along the sheets. The curtains drawn, the glow of midday crept through cracks in the darkness, alerting him that the day had indeed worn on long without him. It only made him feel far worse; far more useless, having spent all evening thinking on his failures, and now all day sleeping upon them, he had little inclination to spend yet another afternoon lost in those thoughts.
He knew he wouldn't be that lucky, though. She had made an impression... and now she's all he could think upon.
"M'lord! Are you quite alright?" Ms. Cauthfield asked, her knuckles striking the door with such rapidity he wondered if they'd leave scuff marks across its polished surface. He lamented with a groan; as consciousness quickly flooded into his faculties he became quite suddenly and sharply aware of a dolorous throbbing in his temples; he ached tremendously through his legs and arms and even into his core, his entire body run ragged by the demon of self-flagellation via drink. And consciousness only brought to bear the worst of his self-loathing, for now he saw her face; he saw her reaction to him, recounting the strained relationship between he and his sister.
Lady Havenshire reminded him of his sister, in some ways; a worldly woman with thoughts of lands far from England; thoughts of a life different from the one people like she and he had been consigned to. He felt selfish in assessing he, too, had been a prisoner of a life he never wanted - a life thrust upon him by the death of his father. He hated the guilt he felt for how his sister had suffered; he hated being complicit in a system that had hurt her, and had sent her away; that had fractured what had once been a happy family living among the rolling greens and beneath the stormy doldrums of northern England.
Now, he had hurt more than just his sister. He had hurt Lady Havenshire - something that had always, and seems would always, happen. Anna had always been right when she'd left him alone, the priest shaking his head; the gathered guests huddled beneath the arcade, their eyes wide and their faces long. Lord Beckham rolled to his side, pulling the sheets across his head, drowning out the light; drowning out the noise. He thought on her. He couldn't stop.
Lady Havenshire. She deserved far more than he could ever give. Lady Havenshire. A woman who had seen the world. What had he done, cloistered away in his manor towering over the peasantry, to deserve her? What could he offer that a woman who had seen the world would ever desire? Why would a man who benefited from a system built against her deserve her hand? Lady Havenshire. Beautiful, but so out of reach. Lady Havenshire.
"M'lord! Lady Havenshire..." the rest of Ms. Cauthfield's words didn't matter; his mind ringing, he leapt from the bed. At first, he thought he had misunderstood; perhaps his wanting mind had pieced together wanton, disconnected sounds and had simply imagined Ms. Cauthfield saying the name. Nevertheless, he wanted to know; he had to know, if she had indeed said that name. Sprung from the bed, he pulled a robe across his broad, strong chest, holding it tight as he lopsidedly bounded towards the door, his legs uneven, aching with each step as the ghost of last evening's indulgences haunted his being.
"M'lord," Ms. Cauthfield asked in concern, having heard the sudden and jarring sounds of Lord Beckham wobbling through his room to the door. Pulling the portal wide, the sunlight struck him and nearly knocked him back into his lightless abyss, as a demon fleeing the scorching flames of heaven. Recoiling, he shook away the pain and the headache and he focused his glazed gaze on Ms. Cauthfield, who regarded him curiously. "I'm glad to see you awake, m'lord. James informed me you had given to drink last evening."
"What was the name you just said, Ms. Cauthfield?" the duke demanded, eyes narrowed through the sunlight pouring through the manor's tall windows. Ms. Cauthfield regarded him with confusion, and his heart hurt, fearing he had simply imagined this.
"A name, m'lord?"
"You said a name, did you not?" he demanded desperately.
"I apologize, m'lord, I was quite concerned for you. James and a few of the other serving girls had said the same," Ms. Cauthfield insisted, worry in her eyes. "Did you have the dream again?"
"So you didn't say her name, then?" Lord Beckham asked with a certain flirt of madness in his tone. Realization startled Ms. Cauthfield and her expression shifted to surprise.
"Oh, yes! Did you mean my mention of Lady Havenshire?"
"So you did mention her?" Lord Beckham asked, relieved that his mind had not fallen so precipitously to insanity. "What do you have to say of her?"
"Oh, m'lord, I apologize, I didn't mean to bother you with trifles like those," Ms. Cauthfield said dismissively. "I had simply mentioned her in hopes of lifting your spirits, and catching your attention."
"How do you know of her?" Lord Beckham asked, strolling to the window near the staircase. He approached slowly, letting the light filter into his muddied mind bit by bit, so as not to overwhelm his constitution, rendered fragile by a night of drink, all at once. Ms. Cauthfield sighed dismissively.
"Again, I apologize for mentioning these sorts of frivolities, I know how you feel about them," Ms. Cauthfield said by way of disclaimer. "A letter arrived from the Havenshire Manor this morning. Apparently, word passed to the duke there, a lovely but ailing old man, that you had spoken a fair few words of conversation to his daughter." Lord Beckham sighed in response.
"Word passed to him, did it?" he scoffed. Both he and Ms. Cauthfield knew just who had 'passed word'.
"You know just how much Lady Henrietta enjoys hearing herself speak, m'lord, particularly when it comes to matters of gossip at dinner parties. I hadn't known she would be at that particular event last night, m'lord, elseways I would have known some manner of gossip as this would get out, and would have advised against your attendance," Ms. Cauthfield lamented. "I'm certain it's simply Lady Henrietta making mere introductions and pleasantries out to be some grand manner of conspiracy or affair, as she is often willing to do. I apologize for even broaching the subject, m'lord. I simply worried for your health this morning."
"No, you needn't apologize," Lord Beckham responded, considering deeply the possibilities before him. No doubt Lady Henrietta had exaggerated what had happened between he and Lady Havenshire. It struck him with poignancy the predicament Lord Havenshire suffered - he realized the ailing man's desire to marry his daughter off, so as to keep the inheritance of wealth and estate within his family. He gazed across the grasses, watching the farmers work their lands; watching life bustle along the roadways in the small town, off in the distance, on the edges of Berrewithe estate. "What manner of meeting does the Lord Havenshire request?" Ms. Cauthfield seemed taken aback by the question, not having expected her master would be at all interested in the letters and gossip of women like Lady Henrietta.
"I'm... not quite certain, to be honest, m'lord, I didn't think would ask on its contents," Ms. Cauthfield replied. "James, I believe, mentioned words about an inheritance, or a discussion thereof—"
"Of course," the duke responded bitterly, his heart stung.
"I've... well, I've heard rumor that Lord Havenshire's health has... failed, quite rapidly, in the passing months, m'lord," Lady Cauthfield added, standing loyally attentive near the stairwell. Her own thoughts began to suddenly turn on the
matter of the inheritance, and the duke's daughter - and she began herself to see an opportunity for her master. "Perhaps, you... could hear him out? I know it's a trivial matter, likely inflated by the impetuous chatter of Lady Henrietta, but... well, I think it might be good for you to speak to him, and to speak again to his daughter. She may be quite a lovely woman."
"She is," Lord Beckham sighed, much to Ms. Cauthfield's wide-eyed surprise. "She's worldly, capable, intelligent, stunning. She's what one would want and expect of a true noblewoman," Lord Beckham lamented. Surprised to hear words such as those coming from her master, Ms. Cauthfield's voice grew urgent.
"So, it's not simple hearsay or gossip from Lady Henrietta? M'lord, certainly you'll go and see the duke and his daughter, then?" she asked, hopefully.
"No, I shan’t," Lord Beckham said in disappointment, deflating his servant.
"And why is that? You've just spoken highly of the woman, and her father clearly needs your assistance," Ms. Cauthfield insisted.
"I've offended her, and I certainly don't deserve a second chance by speaking with her dying father behind her back. She shall certainly regard me then as up to no good, looking to steal from her agency and her fortune without regard for who she is," Lord Beckham reasoned. "No. I've failed already in regard to lovely Lady Havenshire."
"Oh, come now," Ms. Cauthfield chastised. "You've earned the interest of her father, and no matter what sort of offense she's taken from you, she'd be foolish not to recognize your merits as a gentleman."
"But I'm not a gentleman, am I?" Lord Beckham protested. "A gentleman doesn't fail his love as I have. A gentleman doesn't estrange his sister, offend women like Lady Havenshire."
"M'lord, I've held back from speaking so cross as I wish about Lady Anna in the past, but if I must I shall be blunt as a blacksmith's hammer," Ms. Cauthfield said, full of fire. "You did not fail Lady Anna. She failed you. You treated her as angels deserve, yet she left you suffering on what should have been the finest day in Berrewithe Manor's history. And why? Why, m'lord?"
"I wasn't enough," Lord Beckham insisted, brooding as he watched the sun through the windows.
"She used you, m'lord. She used you for her own selfish ends, and when she had no more a need of you, she abandoned you. You had far more to offer than she was ever worth," Ms. Cauthfield roared. Lord Beckham hesitated. He wouldn't hear it; he wouldn't face that thought.
"Ms. Cauthfield, I'd ask you to mind your place," he said defensively.
"At least listen to the old man. He's dying, m'lord," Ms. Cauthfield pleaded, at the edge of her patience.
"Prepare a carriage," he muttered. "I suppose I shall at least hear him out... if only for the reputation of the manor. Of Berrewithe," he tried to rationalize.
Truly, all he wanted was to her see her face again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I don't believe I've ever taken you this far from the manor, have I?" James, the old butler, asked, driving the horses along the roadway. Lord Beckham had requested a simple carriage, and for James to accompany him, expecting the trip would be short; he would speak to the ailing lord, perhaps ask on the matter of inheritance, politely refuse the ailing lord's offer, and board the carriage back to his manor. Instead the trip had been long, dull; James had spent much of it trying, full of hope, to pry from his master the events of the past evening. Lord Beckham knew all of his servants hoped to have a new woman at the manor - and he deftly avoided the subject at every encounter, not wanting to let down his loyal butler by informing him that Lady Havenshire had left rather upset.
"I'm not certain," Lord Beckham said lackadaisically, looking on the moors and thinking.
"I recall taking your sister all the way to London," James laughed, before an uncomfortable feeling settled across the both of them. The duke watched the roadway, troubled, taking deep breaths as he considered his own past. "I do... sometimes quite miss your sister, m'lord. Begging your pardon, of course, her manner of leaving us was..."
"It was perfect justified, James," Lord Beckham rumbled, the self-loathing flaring once more as he recalled the last few days he spent with his sister.
"We... we simply had to follow the law of the land. For the better of the estate, and the memory of your father. None of us wanted to," James recalled, "but... there was little we could do, after the magistrate demanded you inherit, over Leah."
"Does that not trouble you, James?" Lord Beckham asked, confrontational.
"You're quite a capable, intelligent man, and a good master to have, m'lord. Your sister had all those, of course, but she... well, she was a woman," James lamented.
"Does that trouble you? The thought of having a woman as a master? As the woman in charge of Berrewithe? Of the estate?" Lord Beckham challenged.
"Oh, certainly not," James murmured, the horse hooves slowing as the carriage wound through the forested lands at the edge of the Havenshire estate. "I've no trouble listening to Ms. Cauthfield with each waning day!" he laughed. "Though... it's, well... it's simply not how our world works, m'lord."
"Don't you think we ought to pontificate on changing that, James? Isn't a woman worth as much as I am? Perhaps more?"
"I... I hadn't... thought on it, m'lord," James answered slowly.
"Perhaps you should. Perhaps all of England should."
"That's quite curious talk," James said, a little surprised. "I've... I suppose I am an old man. Our ways are our ways. I would not... mind a change, but I haven't quite thought about one."
"If we had thought on one, as a society, perhaps we could change things. Perhaps Leah would not have left in disgust, on seeing this world for what it could truly be. Is it gentlemanly, James, to disregard the value women have in our society?" Lord Beckham challenged.
"I'm not... certain, m'lord. I... I suppose I leave those sorts of thoughts up to men far wiser than I," James chuckled uncomfortably. The duke decided not to press his servant any further, sitting in silence, and instead contemplating the questions on his own. Had he deserved the family fortune over his beloved sister simply because he had been born a man? Was Lady Havenshire right to be offended by a system that allowed such a thing to happen? Did he truly deserve the position he held - or had it simply been gifted to him by the circumstances of his birth?
"We're nearly here, m'lord," James announced, pulling round the front of the manor. Though not quite as impressive as Berrewithe, its wrought-iron gates and gardens impressed Marshall, who found servants waiting at the door to greet him. "I suppose I shall wait?" James asked.
"It shouldn't be long, James," Lord Beckham said, nodding as he exited the simple, wooden carriage. Approaching the door with a stern expression, Lord Beckham met with the welcoming eyes of a portly old man and a stern elderly woman, who quite reminded him of a harsher sort of Ms. Cauthfield.
"Welcome, Lord Beckham, to Emerys, and to Lord Havenshire's manor," the older woman said, nodding. "I'm Ms. Mulwray, and this is Egan. We'd be delighted to take you to the—"
"Excuse me, yes, it's a pleasure, but I'm in quite a bit of a haste," Lord Beckham insisted. A sudden urgency filled his head; he realized all at once just where he had arrived, and who lived inside. He recalled her face - beautiful, but vexed the last he had seen it. Vexed with pained thoughts and regret. He knew, in his heart, he shouldn't have come; any time he blinked, he saw only flashes of his painful day, his dashed wedding in the Delshire Moors.
"Apologies, then, Lord Beckham," the old woman said, a slight irritation in her tone. "Let me lead you to the dining room, then, where you'll find Lord Havenshire waiting to discuss a matter of some importance." The portly man bowed courteously to Lord Beckham as he passed through the doors, the wooded interior rather inviting and every surface polished to a gleam. Maidservants cluttered the furnished foyer, their eyes alight with impish curiosity as they saw the dark man pass through the entryway. The doors swung open to a cavernous dining hall, with lanterns lit low and curtains drawn across the fading daylight beaming through short, squat windows.
At the end of the table, he saw what looked like a withered husk of a man - skin pale, his body clearly ravaged with pain as he struggled to appear welcoming, with lifting his arms quite an exhausting task for the man, his hair spotty and gray.
"Lord Beckham! I've not had the pleasure of welcoming you to the manor yet," Lord Havenshire announced, before a spat of coughs interrupted his words. Lady Henrietta sat at the pained man's flank, sipping on a cup of tea, her eyelids fluttering innocently at Lord Beckham, though he could see the conspiratorial glint in her gaze. Humbly Lord Beckham bowed, crossing wordlessly through the threshold and towards the two of them.
"A pleasure indeed," Lord Beckham finally said, and only then upon coming close to Lord Havenshire did he realize just how dire the situation was for the lord. Lady Henrietta remained silent - a rarity for her - though the little smile on her face said all that she wanted to say, letting Lord Beckham know she had been the little bird whispering in Lord Havenshire's ear about the meeting between Nadia and Marshall the night before.
"A friend of mine, Lady Henrietta," Lord Beckham introduced.
"Oh, we're quite the friends, aren't we, Marshall?" Lady Henrietta beamed, clearly quite proud of having tried her hand at playing matchmaker between lords and ladies. She clearly appeared to think Lord Beckham would appreciate the gesture, just as clearly as she clearly expected he would thank her profusely for finding him a potential wife. Instead, his words remained hasty.
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