CHAPTER THREE
"M'lord Beckham, your dinner's about to be served," the chipper old man in the white waistcoat announced, peering quizzically into the darkened study of his master, lit only by the dying crackle of a sooty fireplace. No response came at first; its walls arrayed with shelves upon shelves of books and scholarly work, with a grand armchair facing the fireplace, the butler strode through the doorway, bowing his head as he came to see his master, shrouded in shadow, glinting, fiery embers reflected in his striking, deep green eyes; his garb colored in tones of earth and midnight, he cupped his chin in his hand, focused deeply in a myriad of contentious thoughts; his frame tall and strong, he nonetheless seemed a ghost of a man, vexed by a thousand scattered worldly concerns.
"M'lord," the voice repeated, quieter this time. The man in the chair appeared unmoved; he watched the flames lick and and listened to the cool crackle of searing embers, pondering a great many, endless things. Lord Marshall Beckham, the Duke of Berrewithe, had a lot to think about - and not just the nature of the world and the title that bore down on his shoulders.
He thought, far too often, about her. About the woman he had loved - about the woman he had lost. And he thought about what he had done to lose her. He thought about his endless failures; about what was expected of a true gentleman of his era. And how he'd failed to live up to every expectation with her. With the woman who still haunted his dreams - Anna.
"M'lord... Ms. Cauthfield has prepared your favorite meal for tonight. It's taken her all too to properly braise the beef," the butler implored, his voice quiet, almost conspiratorial. "She'd be quite cross should you choose to spend your eve alone in the study once more."
"I'll attend to the emotional needs of Ms. Cauthfield in time, James," the man draped across his darkened throne boomed, his voice resounding; his voice deep, powerful, and almost haunting in its own way, with a tint of broken at its tips. The butler sighed, peering into the fire with his master, as if seeking the sight of whatever broken memories and disturbed thoughts had brought him to this point in the first place.
"Have you been thinking again on the affair at Delshire Moors, Lord Beckham?" the butler asked, as if he already knew the answer.
"I'll not need to hear your lecture on the matter again, James," Lord Beckham groaned wearily, hoping to avoid a conversation his servants had offered him countless times since he left that dark place - alone, unwed, in a carriage of black, with rain raging across the hills, with the lord convinced he'd never find a heart to love him again.
"It's not a lecture Ms. Cauthfield and I offer, simply concern, m'lord. The both of us have served the family for more than a generation. We grew up with you, m'lord," the butler confesses, emotion sneaking into a voice tailored meticulously to appear blase and professional.
"My concern, is for why the headmistress of my house staff is in the kitchen, and not my cook," the vexed lord responded, clasping his hands in his lap idly. The thoughts wouldn't rush away - he heard the patter of the rain; he saw the flowered wedding bouquet he'd offered his dearest love, so long ago, trampled under the wheel of a carriage. He saw the letter she'd left him. The house staff had called her callous; cruel. He knew that it had been his own fault - for failing to live up to what he knew was expected of him. He'd never make the proper gentleman. Anna knew that. And now he'd spent night after night after night, rethinking all that he'd done - retracing every step, to see just where he'd failed. Why he'd lost himself, and why he'd never earn a woman's love again.
"No one makes the honey-braised loins just the way you like, except for her, m'lord," James insisted meekly. "Ms. Roth makes excellent stews and foods, of course. But no one does your favorites like Ms. Cauthfield."
"Is this what we hope to do to lift the veil cast across the estate, James? Braised loins and memories of childhood?" Lord Beckham lamented with a sigh.
"I know it's not quite my place to offer an opinion, m'lord, but... well, you know how Ms. Cauthfield and I felt about the... issue, at the Moors. You're a better man that that, m'lord. You're a better man than—"
"Anna. You can say her name, Mr. Malboro. Anna. There's no mystery as to what you speak of, when the topic of the situation at the moors crosses your lips. It's quite a frustrating euphemism," Lord Beckham intoned - not so much harsh, as miserable; crooning. "Your opinion is noted, though, as it has been many times over the years since I last... spoke, with Anna,"
he added, his heart wilting briefly.
"Then... m'lord Beckham, perhaps it would behoove you to note that you've given yourself far too much pain and regret for something quite beyond your fault. If..." James held back the full brunt of his emotional tumult, only to earn to the faint glare of his master. He backed down, knowing cross words on the legacy of Lord Beckham's lost love would do little to deter the gloomy disposition of the man.
"I suppose it's time to listen to Lady Cauthfield's weekly haranguing of my self-reflection, then?" Lord Beckham asked stormily, lifting himself from the armchair and proceeding past his butler. Lord Beckham could recognize James's concerns - and he knew the old man had only the lord's best interests in his mind. But, he thought as he proceeded into the grand and sprawling hall on the third floor of Berrewithe Manor, neither well-intentioned James nor sprightly old Ms. Cauthfield would ever understand what it meant to be a man who could never again deserve the love of a beautiful woman. Neither could they know the sensation of failing at your life's duty - to make a woman happy, in the way only a gentleman could.
As his footsteps echoed through the shadowy stairwell, lush paneled stairs and walls gleaming in faint candlelight, he heard a storm rumble just beyond a wall of glass panes, elegant red-black curtains draped across the towering window at the second-floor landing. Lightning flashed just long enough for streaking of electric white-blue to illuminate his features; sullen, and tinted with the warmth of growing age, yet so deep; so entrancing, with a masculine cut to his jaw and a wild freedom to his dark hair. He gazed upon his visage, reflected in the lightning crackling through the windows; it would never satisfy him. A virile bed of stubble crested along his chin; something quite ghastly to see festering on the face of one who ought to be a proper gentleman.
The dining room doors swung open and Lord Beckham entered silently, the scent of fresh rain falling replaced by the thick scent and sizzle of stringy beef loins braised slow in pots with honey, stock, and spices. A recipe Lord Beckham had loved since his childhood, he knew that Ms. Cauthfield cooked it in trying times; she cooked it whenever she felt the need to placate an imperfect man. Though the scent pleased him, it brought back memories no longer idyllic, but tragic; memories viewed through the shards of a broken mirror.
"You're finally here! I've been braising this meat all day," exclaimed the elderly woman in the frumpy white linens, her voice full of exasperated mirth. All at once Lord Beckham's countenance changed; while the smell of the meat and the welcome smile of his loyal maidservant would normally seem so inviting, tonight was not a night he wished to again entertain her patronizing attempts to cure his foul mood, or to hear her speak once again on how little regard she had for the lord's lost love, Anna.
"Ms. Cauthfield, I certainly appreciate the sentiment, but I feel that perhaps tonight would be an evening best spent alone, with a simple glass of sherry to keep me company. I certainly hope you won't take offense," Lord Beckham murmured apologetically. Ms. Cauthfield sighed, deflated, shaking her head.
"M'lord, we do this because we care about you - James and I," she added, as her master turned his back to the door. "You do quite understand that, don't you? We're concerned. This spell that witch has cast upon you—"
"Ms. Cauthfield, I know in no uncertain terms how poor you happen to regard Anna, but I'll not have you speaking ill of her like that so boldly to me his evening," Lord Beckham growled. "Please. Enjoy the braised loins between the house staff - I know James has quite a love for your cooking, as well. I apologize for appearing mercurial, Ms. Cauthfield, but I simply don't have it in me tonight."
"Will you ever have it in you, m'lord?" Ms. Cauthfield asked, bedraggled. He took a long, contemplative silence to consider that before leaving the dining room.
CHAPTER FOUR
"M'lord! Look at what a wonderful day it is!"
He heard the soft scrape of curtains drawn open against steely curtain-rods; he felt the sun leap through smudged windows, glaring into his pulled-shut eyes. A beautiful day had taken off across the rolling moors, and the glower of the day's burning beams pulled him harshly from reverie; a meandering and painful dream he had too often, one that he couldn't forget; one that floated through his mind almost any time he pulled his eyes shut and closed out the sound and the light and the life of the world.
Rain pattering across a courtyard; stands of roses woven through bright-white trellises, lining a cobblestone pathway. Beautiful flowerbeds flanking rows of empty benches; the disembodied sound of a reception, a party meant just for him; for him, and for his love.
Rain darkening what should have been a day to remember for all his life... a day he thought, until then, that he was born deserving. The day he and Anna would meet.
Instead he found only soggy bouquets; eyes strained wide in surprise. Gossipy murmurs as throngs of men in their white suits and women in loose, flowing gowns woven with lacy, floral patterns stood beneath the cloistered halls lining the courtyard, grass flooded as he fell to his knees, soaked by the storm that had claimed a day he had dreamed of; the day he and she would exchange something sacred and inviolable.