AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Your sister?" Lady Havenshire chimed in curiously. The subject clearly made Lord Beckham uncomfortable, as he shifted about in his chair.
"My elder sister, yes, Catherine. A wonderful... woman," he hesitated. Cold realization churned in Lady Havenshire's stomach.
"Elder sister. Catherine," she repeated skeptically. He, like every man, had benefited from the system she despised... no different from the others. "And I'm guessing that as your father passed, he felt safe, having a male heir, yes?" Lord Beckham's expression grew cross.
"I did not... enjoy, seeing my father die, nor did I enjoy the trouble caused by my sister's—"
"Trouble? Is that what your sister was - a trouble? Women - we're such troubles, aren't we?" Nadia interrupted, her mind afire now.
"No, the trouble was in the manner of inheritance. I had no interest in... in feuding with my sister. I..." Lord Beckham's voice fell away. The conversation ended nearly as abruptly as it had begun; Lady Havenshire, her arms crossed atop h
er chest, looked away.
It hurt her. It hurt her deeply; she thought she'd found a man different from the others, but that moment had come as a blistering reminder that no man cared for women as equals; none saw them as worthy, and every man benefited from a system that put men on top, even those who wanted not to benefit. She found Lord Beckham handsome, strange; that aura, and that charm, had even opened her up and made her vulnerable.
"I hope we're having a lovely time, are we not?" A chipper voice broke the silence; Lord Perrywise, the addled old man, smiling as he stuck his head between the two of them. "Lord Beckham, so pleased you could make it! We've not seen you in the hallowed halls of the manor here in so long! And paired with such a lovely woman, Lady Havenshire! Your father, he was so excited you'd be here, and..."
How perfectly timely an interference. Lord Perrywise, her father - real life, came crashing back down, and she and Lord Beckham simply sat in tense silence, enduring it.
CHAPTER SIX
Failure.
A rapping at the door pulled Lord Beckham from a stormy reverie; that recurring dream, haunting him again, like a specter floating amid the oak and the glass of Berrewithe Manor, hiding in the high shadows of imposing, vaulted ceilings. His eyes opened, though the hazy stupor of liquor and self-loathing cast a murky shadow over his vision; he clung to the faint memories of his dream, reminding him again, and again, that failure had always been his only reasonable option. He had failed Anna; he had failed the woman who had entranced him, just last night; Lady Havenshire, a woman who felt like none he had ever met. A woman who understood his blasé humor; a woman who had appreciated his heart. A woman he had felt a spark with, like the flash of gold-yellow when flint struck tinder... but the fire, as always, had failed to start. Now, he was certain he would never again see the woman who had lit a candle in his own heart; who had, for a few moments of conversation, connected with him as few ever had.
The rapping continued, and a familiar voice broke through. The night had been cruel to Lord Beckham, and after retreating from the dinner party and its blinding lights, pastel corridors and chortling, foppish gentlemen, he had spent the night thinking on her; thinking on Lady Havenshire, thinking on Anna. And when thoughts came of his own failures, of his inadequacies, the drink began; and rarely did it stop, before the morbid dreams of crushed flowers and a wedding reception stolen by rain reminded him of how he didn't deserve a woman; not Anna, and certainly not one like the young Lady Havenshire.
"M'lord! It's quite time for afternoon tea, and you've nearly slept all the day!" Ms. Cauthfield excoriated her master through the door. Lord Beckham had little interest in facing today; nor did he very well fancy the idea of facing tomorrow, either. He pretended to ignore the old woman crowing through the door, instead shifting along the sheets. The curtains drawn, the glow of midday crept through cracks in the darkness, alerting him that the day had indeed worn on long without him. It only made him feel far worse; far more useless, having spent all evening thinking on his failures, and now all day sleeping upon them, he had little inclination to spend yet another afternoon lost in those thoughts.
He knew he wouldn't be that lucky, though. She had made an impression... and now she's all he could think upon.
"M'lord! Are you quite alright?" Ms. Cauthfield asked, her knuckles striking the door with such rapidity he wondered if they'd leave scuff marks across its polished surface. He lamented with a groan; as consciousness quickly flooded into his faculties he became quite suddenly and sharply aware of a dolorous throbbing in his temples; he ached tremendously through his legs and arms and even into his core, his entire body run ragged by the demon of self-flagellation via drink. And consciousness only brought to bear the worst of his self-loathing, for now he saw her face; he saw her reaction to him, recounting the strained relationship between he and his sister.
Lady Havenshire reminded him of his sister, in some ways; a worldly woman with thoughts of lands far from England; thoughts of a life different from the one people like she and he had been consigned to. He felt selfish in assessing he, too, had been a prisoner of a life he never wanted - a life thrust upon him by the death of his father. He hated the guilt he felt for how his sister had suffered; he hated being complicit in a system that had hurt her, and had sent her away; that had fractured what had once been a happy family living among the rolling greens and beneath the stormy doldrums of northern England.
Now, he had hurt more than just his sister. He had hurt Lady Havenshire - something that had always, and seems would always, happen. Anna had always been right when she'd left him alone, the priest shaking his head; the gathered guests huddled beneath the arcade, their eyes wide and their faces long. Lord Beckham rolled to his side, pulling the sheets across his head, drowning out the light; drowning out the noise. He thought on her. He couldn't stop.
Lady Havenshire. She deserved far more than he could ever give. Lady Havenshire. A woman who had seen the world. What had he done, cloistered away in his manor towering over the peasantry, to deserve her? What could he offer that a woman who had seen the world would ever desire? Why would a man who benefited from a system built against her deserve her hand? Lady Havenshire. Beautiful, but so out of reach. Lady Havenshire.
"M'lord! Lady Havenshire..." the rest of Ms. Cauthfield's words didn't matter; his mind ringing, he leapt from the bed. At first, he thought he had misunderstood; perhaps his wanting mind had pieced together wanton, disconnected sounds and had simply imagined Ms. Cauthfield saying the name. Nevertheless, he wanted to know; he had to know, if she had indeed said that name. Sprung from the bed, he pulled a robe across his broad, strong chest, holding it tight as he lopsidedly bounded towards the door, his legs uneven, aching with each step as the ghost of last evening's indulgences haunted his being.
"M'lord," Ms. Cauthfield asked in concern, having heard the sudden and jarring sounds of Lord Beckham wobbling through his room to the door. Pulling the portal wide, the sunlight struck him and nearly knocked him back into his lightless abyss, as a demon fleeing the scorching flames of heaven. Recoiling, he shook away the pain and the headache and he focused his glazed gaze on Ms. Cauthfield, who regarded him curiously. "I'm glad to see you awake, m'lord. James informed me you had given to drink last evening."
"What was the name you just said, Ms. Cauthfield?" the duke demanded, eyes narrowed through the sunlight pouring through the manor's tall windows. Ms. Cauthfield regarded him with confusion, and his heart hurt, fearing he had simply imagined this.
"A name, m'lord?"
"You said a name, did you not?" he demanded desperately.
"I apologize, m'lord, I was quite concerned for you. James and a few of the other serving girls had said the same," Ms. Cauthfield insisted, worry in her eyes. "Did you have the dream again?"
"So you didn't say her name, then?" Lord Beckham asked with a certain flirt of madness in his tone. Realization startled Ms. Cauthfield and her expression shifted to surprise.
"Oh, yes! Did you mean my mention of Lady Havenshire?"
"So you did mention her?" Lord Beckham asked, relieved that his mind had not fallen so precipitously to insanity. "What do you have to say of her?"
"Oh, m'lord, I apologize, I didn't mean to bother you with trifles like those," Ms. Cauthfield said dismissively. "I had simply mentioned her in hopes of lifting your spirits, and catching your attention."
