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He closed his eyes to shoo away the sunlight for just a few more moments, so that he might masochistically recall that day; the day that haunted dreams both waking and asleep. The day that taught him he didn't deserve love. He had always heard of her as flighty; as a 'firebrand'. She never imagined that she would so quickly turn away from his love, and he could only reason that she did so, and did it so easily, because he had never earned that love in the first place. He knew he could never earn anyone's love.
How could any woman truly ever love me?
"Chase the dreams away, m'lord, it's an exciting day to wake up to," the chipper old woman's voice chimed. He opened his eyes again to see a figure cast in the shadow of the day, wrapped in sunlight that blinded him. As his eyes adjust and the muddled patter of rain from his dream ebbed away in his ears, he sighed in desperation on seeing a woman too familiar to him standing in the light at the window.
"Ms. Cauthfield, yes, good morning," Lord Beckham groaned, rolling onto his back in the bed. Confused and perturbed, his rather grumpy tone fell upon his loyal, bright-eyed servant like a particularly unceremonious cudgel. "And for what doubtlessly pressing concern have you implored me rise from bed so early?" he asked sarcastically.
"So much impudence for your family's longest-employed servant," Ms. Cauthfield humphed as she went about picking up articles of clothing scattered about the bedroom, straightening the lord's writing desk as she passed. "I helped raise you, you know. Your mother, may she rest peacefully, found herself so often utterly baffled on what to do with you, m'lord. I think on her often," Ms. Cauthfield sniffled nostalgically. "And with how you've been these past years, m'lord, I can certainly begin to understand how at a loss she was, regarding you."
"Ms. Cauthfield, don't you think it's perhaps a bit early in the day for one of your brow-beatings?" Lord Beckham lamented, sighing as he came to sit on the edge of the bed, chasing away a long yawn.
"Would you prefer it if I perhaps waited until dinner time, instead?" Ms. Cauthfield responded with a cheery chirp, responding to his facetiousness with a rapier-strike of her own. "By then you'll be quite prepared, won't you?"
"You're fortunate to have a master as caring and as forgiving as I can be, Ms. Cauthfield," the lord grumbled; the old woman showed no amount of intimidation, knowing that the master was quite a bit of bark, but far too kind a man inside to bite.
"Besides, I have to give you your verbal switchings now, as you'll be quite tied up by dinnertime, won't you?" Ms. Cauthfield asked knowingly. Lord Beckham couldn't recall precisely what the old woman was referring to, his expression perplexed. He had not exactly developed much of a habit of inviting company to the manor for dinner... though Ms. Cauthfield often had little hesitation in arranging such dates on his behalf, the precocious old woman.
"And to whom have you extended an uncalled-for invitation to my manor for this evening, then, Ms. Cauthfield?" he asked accusingly, standing and straightening the loose silken garments clung to his strong frame, his virile, broad chest exposed by the low-cut neckline.
"I should take it with no surprise but only a consigning sigh, that you've already forgotten what happens this evening, shouldn't I?" Ms. Cauthfield exclaimed in disappointment. After another night of tossing dreams; of visions of red roses left in the rain, lovingly-cut flowers trampled beneath pounding horse hooves, he had little notion in his mind to entertain these sorts of motherly naggings, even from Ms. Cauthfield, who he gave quite a bounteous handful of leeway to.
"Ms. Cauthfield, I apologize for not having quite the vastness of memory to commit to my everyday thoughts each one of the ill-advised attempts you make to socialize me back into a world with which I have no interest of engaging," Lord Beckham dismissed, disgruntled, as he walked to the windows, the sunlight blurring his vision for a brief moment. The bright gleam of fresh, tall grass growing wild along the forested fringes of the Berrewithe Estate nearly blinded him - and with each balmy glint of morning dew that met his eyes, he recoiled as the sound of distant storms replayed that sullen day in his head, over and over again, reinforcing that he ought to stay right where he was - locked away, unworthy and unwanted, in the rotting depths of Berrewithe.
"But this particular event, with which you have so stubbornly refused to engage, is a particularly important one, one I would have quite expected you to commit to memory," Ms. Cauthfield chastised in a playful sing-song as she fastidiously collected dirtied linens from the master's bed.
"I'm certain that you've said just that about every particular event you've attempted to coax me in to paying attention to, Ms. Cauthfield, so once again you'll need to narrow the field for me," Lord Beckham grunted acerbically.
"By particularly important, I meant particularly important, m'lord," Ms. Cauthfield insisted, once again inspiring the eye-rolling ire of her master. "You certainly recall the Lord Hiram Perrywise, don't you?" she asked cheerily, placing the linens in a wicker basket she'd brought up with her. Her habit of combing over the master bedroom so attentively made Lord Beckham anxious, and she knew that quite well; Ms. Cauthfield often used just that anxiousness to coax him, as she couldn't count the numb
er of times she'd heard him say 'I'll do whatever it is you wish, so long as you stop toying with the bedsheets.' It was the only way she could get him to agree to anything, of late.
"I recall that the Lord Hiram Perrywise is a rather insufferable man with a penchant for flaunting each and every inconsequential event in his life via numerous crowded dinner parties held at his unflatteringly gaudy estate. Is that the Lord Hiram Perrywise you're speaking of, Ms. Cauthfield?" Lord Beckham asked with a sardonic grin on his stubble-laden expression. "That one?" he repeated playfully. "Certainly one of my favorite lords in all of northern England."
"You've made a habit of judging any man unworthy of your attention, Lord Beckham," Ms. Cauthfield exclaimed bitterly, "without giving them so much as a chance at earning your respect." Something about that stung deep, like the burning bite of a gnat. Perhaps in her statement he saw a harshness reflected in his own past - he had become quite a harsh adjutant of character, but it felt fair - as he applied those same standards to himself. He had long before judged his own character as unworthy of capturing the attention of fawning aristocracy - and, perhaps most painfully and damningly, the attention of a worthy, beautiful woman. Her statement cut at his core and he turned from her, consigning his sight to the sun - upon which storm clouds had begun to encroach. No day, it seemed, could pass without the darkness of a consuming storm.
"Lord Perrywise is an obnoxious and conceited man, Ms. Cauthfield, and I'm not certain why you'd consider any manner of meeting with him to be one of special importance," Lord Beckham spoke coldly, watching as swabs of gray stretched across the dying sunlight, a distant boom of thunder rattling through the moors. He watched tiny pinpoints of people across the distant farmlands scatter towards the barns and huts dotting verdant fields of swaying grains, the storm warding off hard workers. People felt so insignificant from Lord Beckham's window, the distance between he and the world outside just as great as the oceans spanning the breadth of the world.
"Lord Perrywise is of little consequence to me, m'lord. However, you are of consequence, a great amount of consequence," Ms. Cauthfield implored, her voice a little shaky. "I've given you the speech plenty of times, m'lord. I... don't think I need to rehash the worry brewing in my breast over the self-flagellation you've endured since the day at the Moors. You can't lament that loss forever, and you have so much to give to the world, if you'll understand my meaning, m'lord," Ms. Cauthfield whispered. "I know you're a fully-grown man, a man of purpose and power. I respect who you've become, m'lord, and I'm proud to have seen you through it over all the years I've served the Beckham family. I'm ... simply, worried," Ms. Cauthfield confessed. "There's always a second breath to take of life, m'lord. I know... how you felt, about Anna Brigham, but—"
"Please, Ms. Cauthfield, don't say her name," Lord Beckham pleaded, a pained expression crossing his face. "I understand... I appreciate, your concerns for me."
"Then perhaps you'd appreciate honoring my one request. Yes, I know Lord Perrywise isn't exactly the most enrapturing of hosts, but you know the rather broad crowd that his dinner parties draw. You're bound to find at least one person interested in the matters at Berrewithe - and in you, m'lord," Ms. Cauthfield implored, taking the wicker basket up, filled to its top with soiled linens. She stood, and she waited - hoping for a response, any sort of response. His eyes set on the rolling moors, Lord Beckham's ears caught the distant roar of thunder... and he saw it; rain cascading across the far-off fields, coating rolling greens with sullen memories. His eyes closed, he saw it again; Ms. Cauthfield's voice fell to a fragile, reverberating murmur. She'd worried about him. He knew she worried... but he worried, all the same. He had a great many worries - and that world, the world of fawning words and backstabbing and lies and vexed thoughts - was one that brought him the pain he wrestled with every day; every night. Any trip beyond the walls of Berrewithe Manor could hold the chance of seeing her face - of hearing her words, and of a fresh new realization just how little he fit here, or anywhere. Just how little he was worth.
Ms. Cauthfield stood and watched his silence; she watched for a long, painful moment. With a quiet sigh, she turned to the door; she had expected his outcome. The storm rumbled louder and Ms. Cauthfield, disappointed, pressed through the threshold.
"Ms. Cauthfield," his voice suddenly rang, snapping the old woman's attention back to her master. With a deep breath, his shoulders shaking, the Duke of Berrewithe, by some miracle, had come to a rather unusual decision. "...Have my carriage prepared for this evening. I suppose I ought to see what manner of ostentatious celebration Lord Perrywise has prepared, shouldn't I?" he asked rhetorically. Ms. Cauthfield's face held back from lighting up too brightly, but she was certainly pleased to hear him.
"I'll have it arranged," she responded happily.
CHAPTER FIVE
"C'mon, m'lady, you'll try to have a little fun once we get there, eh?"
"Try is the operative word in that request, Egan," Lady Havenshire sighed, watching the trees sway. A storm had passed loudly and violently through northern England earlier in the afternoon; the leftover breezes carried dewy bulbs and moistened splashes through the air as the sun fell below the horizon, the furthest corner of the sky a fading yellow-orange as bluish moonlight began to claim the dampened moors.
"Come now, m'lady. You know as well as I how comical these dinner parties of Lord Perrywise's can be," Egan chortled; with the last few orange beams creeping over the horizon as night set in along the moors, she heard hoof clops; chatter, laughter. A glance out the window of her father's luxurious carriage brought to her the distant sight of Lord Perrywise's conspicuously ostentatious manor, with an array of similarly ridiculous-looking social climbers and hangers-on gathered in bright lights and bawdy gowns at the monumental twin-doors offering entry to any who dared expose themselves to the mess of Parisian pastels and blinding gossamer blues that Lord Perrywise seemed so gleeful to share.
"Why do you think he holds such outrageous parties, at so outrageous an estate, Egan?" Lady Havenshire queried, tapping her chin curiously, a smirk on her face.
