Clara spun on the stool and grabbed Radcliff’s arm. “Tell me. Tell me now.”
*
Sunday, 21 August 1825
Ashton House
Half past one in the morning
It was beautiful,the brandy, amber and rich with an aroma that enticed, beckoning Michael to sip, just one small sip. He swirled it in the glass, watching it coat the sides, eking back to the bottom. He knew it would help calm him, bring a delicious peace to his clamoring mind, perhaps even the calm of slumber.
Michael could not sleep. That nameless restlessness had returned, gnawing at him, dragging at his mind, his gut, and it would not be silenced. It had taken hold after the visit from Clara, and what had begun as a nagging tug had, over the course of the evening, become a raging beast. He had tried to sleep, donning his nightshirt and burrowing beneath the covers of his bed, but his mind raced with that—something—just out of reach.
Finally, he had gotten out of bed, wrapped his banyan around his body, and paced—first, in his room, then the hall. Up and down the stairs. Several circuits around the ballroom and halls of the first two floors. Nothing helped. Surrendering, Michael had retreated to his father’s study, where a good supply of the finest brandy awaited. He knew all too well the delirium, the dreamless and dark sleep that could be had in that glass.
It would be easy. One sip, then another. One glass, then another. One bottle, then another. He raised the glass, holding it between his face and the single lamp he had lit. In that glow, the color of it reminded him of a good, strong tea, although the results of consuming tea were far different, and to his mind came the memories of what happened after those dreamless and dark nights. The headaches. The loss of days. The debts, both financial and emotional. And the relief from that strangling restlessness, the heartbreak of losing Eleanor, and the need to be under the midnight sky had always been temporary, all of it flooding back in once the drink had worn off. The cycle of torment repeating itself, night after night.
I cannot go back there.
After a moment, Michael released a long exhale and slowly poured the brandy back into the decanter. His hands shook a bit, but he did not spill a drop. He set down the glass and replaced the stopper.
“Wise move.” Philip Ashton’s bass voice sank into the book-lined walls, softening the edge in the words.
Michael turned. “I did not think anyone else was awake.”
Philip’s eyebrows arched as he leaned against the doorframe. “With you stalking the halls like some maniacal ghost? Your mother and I were beginning to place bets about where you would go next.”
Michael’s cheeks grew warm. “I did not mean to disturb anyone.”
Philip pointed to the wingbacks in front of the fireplace. “Sit. If you can. Tell me what is driving you back toward my brandy.” He eased down in the chair, wincing as he favored one knee. He rubbed the joint as he stretched the leg.
Michael scowled. “Are you hurt?”
Philip’s face twisted into the crooked smile typical of all the Ashton men. “I am almost fifty, boy. A good many things ache that did not use to. You will get there. Now,” he gestured at the opposing chair. “Sit. Talk.”
Michael collapsed into the wingback as if all his muscles and bones had stopped functioning. He scrubbed his face with both hands. “I do not really know how to explain it.” He stared for a moment at the cold and empty fireplace. “It is as if there is something just out of my grasp. But I do not know what it is.”
Philip studied Michael a moment. “You always were our midnight child.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his father again. “What do you mean?”
Philip pressed back against the chair and stretched both legs out, crossing them at the ankle. “Even as a young boy you were restless, always wanting out. Do you really think we did not know how often you snuck out in the middle of the night to go riding? More so at Ashton Park than here, obviously. But even here you often would go to the stables after everyone else was in bed. The grooms found you more times than I remember, asleep in a stall. Even after you went to school, I would get letters from your instructors warning us that if you kept violating the rules about hours, you would be expelled.”
Michael gave a quick smile. “I remember that conversation.”
“Your mother thought perhaps you were like most young men, more interested in girls than books, but even that did not seem to be the case. Then Eleanor came along. Everything seemed to come into focus. You made plans. Do you remember asking me if you could take over the management of Ashton Park? You had so many ideas for improvements—and you not yet twenty.”
Michael huffed. “Cheeky devil, was I not?”
Philip grinned. “Yes, but I admired your ambition, and I liked the way your request put a fire under Thomas. He had virtually no interest in our country estates until then. It appeared both of you were coming into your own with the responsibilities of the duchy.”
“Then Eleanor blew that all to flinders. At least where I was concerned.”
Philip fell silent. After a moment, Michael shifted. “Father?”
“Miss Carlson, I’m afraid, was a detriment to both of you.”
Michael scowled. “How so? She took my money and left me in Gretna Green. I thought she would be my wife and by my side all our lives. And I never understood it. If she had wanted money, I would have given her anything.”
