Oh, how those words hurt.
He and his twin used to sing together like all Welshmen did: arms to each other’s shoulders, voices in harmony.
But his damaged throat had put an end to that.
Hugh would replace him.
And hell, but Rhys’ eyes were shadowed with weariness tonight, and conversation was so strained between them. They used to be in such accord that they knew how the other felt without having to say a word, able to finish each other’s sentences, but now…
It was as if they were strangers.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Tristan barely rasped as he patted Mari’s hand and shoved his chair back. “I need some air.” The blankets toppled from his lap, his walking cane clattered to the floor and he limped to the French doors.
A footman arrived to open them before he could get there and he scowled, stepping through into the cold.
Turning to lean against the wall, he tipped his aching head back to the brick and cursed.
He just wasn’t the same man, brother or father they’d known.
Someone different and…less had staggered home that day. A disappointing shadow.
As a young man, he’d always been drawn to the hub of social conversation, found it so natural and enjoyable, but now he felt…outside of it all, an invalid that had to be attended to with blankets and watered-down wine, and why had someone ordered the bones to be removed from his fish?
He stared up at the endless stars.
Heard a door open.
Smelled lavender.
“It would have been better if I’d never come back,” he whispered. “Everyone had grieved and moved on. Then I heaved the shell of Lord Tristan Cadogan through their door.”
He shifted and briefly closed his eyes, knowing he’d just blurted self-pity and frustration.
“Feeling sorry for oneself was something Tristan wouldneverdo. Then or now.”
He nodded, watched as Gwen tugged a jacket around herself – Hugh’s, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“I’m not sure I am Tristan anymore. And it’s not just sorrow for myself, Gwen, but for my family. I am not the same man they knew, and they do not know how to deal with me. I can’t…talk like I used to. Or sing with my brother or dance with my daughter.” He tugged at his scarf. “You know Rhys, he was always a little reticent in social situations and I used to shield him from attention, but… I can’t even do that now. I’m bloody useless to them and I’m sure Rhys can see that. His manner toward me is so…distant.”
Her fingers curled on his arm and he craved such simple touch. “You must give him time, Tristan. He grieved you – we all did – so very deeply. To have you return has perchance brought that terrible grief back to the fore. I do not know but give him time.”
“I have caused such heartache and missed so much. Even Mari is not the daughter I remember. No longer does she wish to ride out with me or become a famed actress. She has become a proper young lady, able to talk of household matters with aplomb. She does not need me anymore.”
“That is not true, Tristan.” Her grip tightened. “She will always need you, for advice and comfort. But for the moment, I do not believe she wishes you to do anything other than…be at her side.” She gently smiled. “A vast hole formed in everyone’s lives when we thought you lost. We mourned and grieved and although we had to move on, there was always your empty chair at the table, your horse that whinnied for its master, your rusty chisel on the stable yard bench that no one could bear to remove. All Mari wants, I believe, is for that chair to be filled. Nothing more.”
Tristan remained silent for a while, her words calming his spiralling thoughts and soothing his frustration. “You are my voice of reason, Gwen,” he whispered, “and I know I must sound like such an ungrateful morose curmudgeon.”
“You have been through something that none of us can imagine, Tristan, so you are allowed alittleleeway.” Gwen’s silk skirts rustled. “And no one is themselves when their head is paining them. And it is, isn’t it?”
“Like a herd of sheep trampling through it.” He twisted to her. “How did you know that?”
“All through dinner you’ve been pinching…” She reached out and pressed a finger to the skin between his eyebrows. “Just there.”
Her touch was gentle and he sighed. “I tried to force memories to return. Of the day I left. What everyone was doing, how my daughter looked and what she wore.” He stared again to the stars that had witnessed it all. “I just wish I could remember…”
He glanced at Gwen who was also staring to the heavens, the cold air doubtless causing that sheen to her eyes.
“So do I, Tristan,” she said softly. “So do I.”
