In his dreams, fire spat and cannons boomed overhead until the ground shook. He threw himself down on grassy earth that was more mud and blood than anything else, pressed his hands over his eyes, and closed his eyes, praying that it would stop.
And then it was morning, and Arthur found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, his tangled, sweaty sheets knotted around him.
He blinked, taking some time to come back from the dream world into the present world. For now, sunshine streamed in through the half-open curtains at the window, all red-gold sunrise and cobbled pink skies. It was somewhere between six and seven, he guessed. His valet wouldn’t come to wake him for another hour yet, and the other guests would likely still be asleep, too.
Sleep was something Arthur would not be getting any more of. His head was mercifully clear, but his mind still rang with the muffled booms of cannons and gunfire, and the screams of the dead and dying.
Swinging back the covers, he stepped out of bed and moved over to the window, stretching. He could summon his valet to get him dressed and ready for the day, of course, but at this time Julius would be downstairs with the other servants, taking his breakfast, imagining that he had plenty of time left to himself. It seemed unfair to drag him away.
With a rush, the events of last night came back – Felicity’s beautiful, simple and sweet playing, immediately contrasted by Miranda’s banging around and warbling. At the memory, Arthur’s head throbbed, and he cursed quietly to himself.
Fresh air,he told himself firmly.Fresh air is what you need.
He pulled on a pair of breeches and plain boots, easy enough to get on by himself, tugged on a shirt and brown waistcoat, ran his fingers through his hair, and decided that that would do.
I’ll have time to neaten myself up before breakfast,he thought.
Outside, Arthur’s headache only intensified. The sun was strong for that time of day, making his eyes smart and his scar throb. The fresh air only seemed to chill his lungs – if such a thing were possible – and every step grew harder and harder to take.
He made it to one of the low-walled gardens before his strength gave out, and plopped heavily down on a stone bench, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
How much more of this must I take?He thought, with a fresh wave of self-pitying misery.I don’t know how much more pain I can manage. I disappoint everyone around me. My mother, my friends… even my fiancé said I wasn’t the man she meant to marry. If she is pursuing me now, it’s because I’m an earl, and no other reason.
He swallowed hard, tasting bile in the back of his throat. Where would he go now? What would happen next? Would he while away his years in this house, with his mother and Lady Lucy aging around him, until he gave up even the pretence of searching for a wife, of trying to be whole again?
I’m tired of it all,he thought viciously, the pain in his head pounding in time to the blood rushing in his ears.I’m tired of hating what I see in the mirror, tired of feeling like half a man, tired of the pitying stares, the eyes that slip away from me, tired of…
“Lord Lanwood?”
He jerked upright at the all-too-familiar voice, a motion which made his head feel as though it were going to split in two.
Sure enough, there she was.
Felicity Thornhill stood on the other side of the low wall, and he guessed that she’d been sitting on the mirror-image of the stone bench he sat upon, a hedge running between them. A large sketching-book was tucked under her arm, and a pencil was propped behind her ear. She was dressed simply and hurriedly, much like he was, and he wondered whether she, too, couldn’t sleep.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded thick and clumsy, even to his own ears.
“You were… you were groaning,” she said delicately. “Should I fetch someone for you? Your mother, perhaps, or Lucy? Or a footman?”
Colour rushed to his face. “N-No, thank you, Miss Thornhill. I’m quite alright. That is, I’mnot, but it’s nothing I haven’t faced before. A megrim,” he added, feeling that he should saysomething.
She nodded understandingly. “They can be awful. I had a friend who was all but blinded by hers, and nobody seemed to understand. Even her own mother kept saying things like, ‘Well, whenIhave a headache, I just do just about everything I want’. It was very tiresome.”
Arthur smiled despite himself. “Yes, I don’t think people understand the difference. Do you suffer from megrims yourself?”
“Thankfully, no. Headaches, sometimes, but rarely megrims. May I join you?”
He hadn’t expected that, and so missed a bit. He smiled weakly, gesturing to the empty half of the bench beside him. Miss Thornhill delicately lifted her skirts and stepped over the low wall in a most unladylike way, and he was forced to hide a smile. She settled herself next to him, and for a moment, they just sat there together, side by side, enjoying a companionable silence.
“I very much enjoyed your pianoforte playing last night,” he heard himself say. It seemed polite to saysomething. Arthur enjoyed sitting in silence, but often people seemed to be uncomfortable with that, preferring instead to make small talk and keep the conversation going.
She smiled wryly. “Thank you. I was pleased enough with my performance. That is, until Miss Sinclair started to play.”
He flinched. Of course, Miranda had gone out of her way to make Miss Thornhill feel inferior. She’d done it often when they were courting and then engaged. It was strange to think how he’d never noticed, only smiled to himself, thinking of how superior his fiancé was in her playing and taste, and almost laughing at the poor ladies shrinking in their seats, feeling silly.
“Miss Sinclair receives plenty of praise, I think,” he said tartly. “She doesn’t have a great love of music, no matter how hard she pretends.”
Not a very gentlemanly thing to say.
