Page 17 of Lord of the Lost

Of course, she could not speak them aloud. She could not do anything but wait politely for him to finish his sentence. The silence lengthened. Eventually, she gave in, and spoke softly.

“Devlin?”

He blinked, and met her eyes, his expression still anguished in some way.

“I hope you like your room. It adjoins mine. Mother has moved to a different suite.”

“I do like it. Thank you.”

He bowed and left the room.

That felt more like a business transaction than a conversation between husband and wife. I am surprised that he did not shake my hand.

Has even the tiny amount of comfort we had gained with each other been lost, simply by returning here?

In that moment, the weight of the Castle around her, and the weight of the expectations of hundreds of years of previous Dukes and Duchesses of Grimstoke seemed overwhelming, as if their ghosts surrounded her, demanding an heir, demanding that she live up to the title, that she somehow make Devlin do so too.

She dropped onto the bed, and the tears came again.

~~~~~

Bloody-handed men were not built for marriage. Bloody-handed men were built for dislodging bayonets from the ends of muskets and shoving the blade into Frenchmen’s necks. Bloody-handed men were built for using the shovels with which they had dug their friends’ graves to beat Frenchmen to death. Bloody-handed men were made to charge, charge,charge! Get them, get all of them, kill them, kill them all! Kick him, spit on the heathens! End them! The demands were there in his mind, screaming at him, at the slightest provocation.

He shivered and stood at the window, looking out upon the spring sunlight and the sun-touched hills.

Was it true? Had he really once run across those hills without the shadows of dead men in his mind? Had he truly climbed trees, wrestled with boys, taken Desdemona on long wandering walks away from their elders?

Standing here, he could not believe it – it all seemed like an impossible dream, even less real than the ghosts who haunted his nights.

He went to the library, lit a candle, and carried it to the corner. It was the best spot in the Castle, in his opinion, where he could be reclusive, yet comfortable, a place where he could sit and be alone, with the distraction of books to help him avoid thinking about all the inhuman things he had done to people, and all the inhuman things people had tried to do to him, over the years of war.

He opened a romance novel, part of his mother’s collection, and read and read until the words blurred. It was simple in here, between these pages. The men were flawless, heroic, and never faltered, and the women were submissive, quiet, quaint, and infinitely impressed by the men. They would meet, have some miscellaneous adventure, and kiss chastely. Devlin wished that he could climb between the pages, could become someone whose life was that simple, someone whose life had never included war and bloodshed. But he could not – the indelible stains of war had soaked into him, body and soul - he was almost shocked when he finally laid the book aside that the paper was not covered in bloody finger-marks.

When he had finished the book, and the day was moving on, he acknowledged that he could not hide here forever, it was his duty to be seen, to speak to his family. He sighed, and rose from the chair, steeling himself to deal with real life again, and stepped out into the hallway, startling a maid who was dusting and polishing the items which rested on side tables and shelves everywhere – the clutter of generations of collectors.

As he walked through the house, Devlin heard voices from the parlour. Curiosity stirred and he moved towards the sound, then stood outside the door, ear close to it like a servant eavesdropping.

“I do hope you are enjoying it here, sister,” Gabrielle was saying. “I am afraid that we do not have many visitors. People are small-minded, you see, and judge Mother awfully unfairly.”

“I’ve been here for fifty years!” Mother snapped, her voice croaky. “I have been an Englishwoman nearly all my life! That Bonaparte character has done me a great deal of harm, you know.”

Oh Mother, you should see the harm he did to others, and we to him.

Somebody coughed. Devlin spun.

A footman, holding a tray, lowered his head.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Who’s out there?”

His mother’s voice was sharp. Devlin pushed the door open and marched into the room, to the chair in the corner, which had somehow become ‘his chair’, and fell into it.

“I was fixing a button,” he mumbled, and gestured vaguely at his jacket.

“We are glad you are here, my sweet son,” his mother said, ignoring his words. “You must have some tea!”

He took a deep breath, and turned his attention to the need to be calm, and steady. And painfully polite and dull. Carefully, he avoided looking at the other side of the low table which held the tea tray – for there, in apparently comfortable companionship with his sister, sat Mona.