“Aye, just like yer papa,” she said, unable to stifle her laughter at the boy’s eye for wit. “You ken just what to say to lift me spirits… Ye are incredible. Did you ken that?”
“Ah, so you are sad, Isla. Do not worry, I will make it better,” he said as he clasped his hand around hers.
“And ye daenae need to worry so much. Ye make everythin’ better, just by bein’ ye.”
Later that evening, Isla desperately needed an ear. And so, she met Eilidh for a walk after supper in St. James’s Park, the December air failing to clear the fog of sorrow around her. The lamplights cast a soft glow on the walkways, the sounds of merriment growing around them as other pedestrians made their way to holiday parties or family gatherings.
“You look so pale, Isla,” Eilidh observed, adjusting her shawl tight around her shoulders. “What is it? Everythin’ seemed so good when we had dinner, just last week!”
Isla shook her head, forcing a light laugh. “I am no paler than usual. It is just the lack of sun, or perhaps the cool evenin’ light.”
“It is the Duke, then,” Eilidh stated simply. “I ken it. It is somethin’, ye can tell me? I do nae want to pry, and I ken I am nae experienced… but I care about ye, sister.”
Isla took a deep breath, watching a flock of pigeons rise into the sky. “He… he wants to end the marriage in all but name, Eilidh. He doesnae want me… doesnae want me children...”
Eilidh stopped, her face stricken. “But… why? Is he ill? Is he unable to… well, ye ken?”
“No! That is nae the problem,” Isla laughed in spite of herself.
“Then what? Ye are so beautiful sister!”
“He is terrified,” Isla admitted, keeping her gaze on the horizon. “He is haunted by his late wife, his mother. He says he cannae bear any more loss. He wants us to be safe, which means being utterly emotionally distant. It is nae way to live, I feel so confused and alone,piuthar.”
Eilidh stepped closer, her hand clutching Isla’s arm as they strode. “Isla, I am so sorry. I thought he was a good man, he looked after Oliver so well and ye, and the dinner…”
“Ye must not feel guilty for this. This is not yer fault. I just… I just thought I could help fix him.”
“Perhaps there will be a Christmas miracle,” Eilidh said, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a tight hug.
“Aye, perhaps… but tell me, how are things with ye? Is Callum settling in well to his role? Is Aunt Honoria still drivin’ ye mad?”
“She is relentless,piuthar,” Eilidh laughed. “I am holdin’ me own though, as well as Callum. He has gotten more even since comin’ to London, some of his hot temper coolin’ off with the change in season perhaps.”
“Oh, I doubt that!” Isla laughed, a genuine smile coming to her lips as he thought of her brother.
While Isla was with Eilidh, Oliver was sitting in Benedict’s study with a trinket box. Benedict watched him pull out a piece of brightly colored sea glass he’d tucked away, a treasure from the coast. He brought it over to Benedict’s desk, where he was poring over maps of his dockyards.
“Papa, look!” Oliver said brightly, holding out the glass. “Isla likes things that shine. Maybe you could give it to her for Christmas.”
Benedict looked down at the boy, then at the dull green shard in his tiny hand. He felt a sudden, helpless wave of guilt as he considered the boy’s thoughtfulness.
“That is… a thoughtful gesture, Oliver,” Benedict said, his voice stiff. He took the glass but did not meet the boy’s gaze.
“She will love it! Shall I have one of the maids help us find some ribbon and bows and-”
“I have work that cannot wait, son. Please forgive me.” He placed the glass on a stack of ledgers and returned his focus to the map.
Oliver’s shoulders slumped, and he left the study without a word.
I wish I could be who you want me to be, son. But it simply is not that easy…
Hours passed by, and Benedict immersed himself in the dark of night, like a hungry vampire with no blood in sight. He was restless and sat in his study, the papers on his desk untouched and the fire low, staring into the flickering embers. His glass of brandy was always at hand, a burning companion to his brooding.
Isla’s words had hit the absolute core of his self-loathing, stoking the fire that burned inside of him. He had fallen into the trap of wanting the comfort she offered and then slamming the door in her face when the wanting became too strong. He had to protect her, even if it was from him and even if it had to be done cruelly.
But what do I do now? Even Oliver can see it, feel the distance that grows between us all. This is no way to live…
He lifted the snifter to his lips, the sharp liquor doing nothing to numb the ache of his conscience as he swallowed deep. He glanced up at the tall window, half-obscured by the heavy drapes. He walked to it and opened the curtains, looking down.
