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“I only... wanted to see your face happy, some day, Anne. I had hoped it could be with him... he seemed to understand you, like no other man in all of England could. I thought he would appreciate you, but this is what you want? Perhaps that, then, can bring you joy,” her father lamented sadly.
“Father, I... I don’t know, why he would do this, our day... together, we...” she huffed, exhaling sharply. “I don’t understand this. It doesn’t make sense! Why would he want...” she held her fists tight, shaking. “I can’t let this stand. Certainly, he must be suffering a curious collection of feelings - I understand it, myself, but...” she seemed to reason as much with herself, trying to explain away the lord’s actions to both her father and her own mind. “I need to find him. I have to leave, father.”
“Nadia, please, as much as it pains me, at least let me have the opportunity of giving you a wedding,” the viscount pleaded.
“I’ll prepare a carriage if I must to catch him, or ride upon Midnight’s back,” she said in a flurry, “We’re going to discuss this. I’m... I’m sure it’s simply a misunderstanding,” she murmured. “...Certainly.”
But had it been? As she stormed through the halls, she thought on darker things. Had Emma truly been right? If the man who had her had claimed her virginity and simply left her afterwards, not to speak to her again... could Lawrence do that to her? A shadow deeper than the encroaching night fell across Anne’s face and in that darkness, cast by the double doors before her, she fought the urge to weep. It burned strong; she couldn’t think to ignore it, but she had to. She reassured herself that there had been a misunderstanding. A crisscross of dangerous and damning thoughts and feelings. They had shared divinity together in the cabin; they had shared feelings buried deep in one of those silly romance books, feelings she never thought could be real; but for those cold moments, illuminated by their souls burning bright as the sun, she had known something real. She had known him.
How could you be so stupid? Anne asked herself, swallowing hard as the alternative presented itself. Had she been seduced by him so skillfully? Had this been his game all along - playing her right into the place that he had wanted her? He had gotten what he wanted - and now he had left.
No. He couldn’t have. She would get to the bottom of this.
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ll never share another night in the same bedchamber as you!”
The words echoed like a primal, shrieking cry that shattered the unstable peace nestled inside of Lawrence’s mind. He heard the exclamation layered not just in his mother’s voice - but now, the phantom sounds that haunted his mind exclaimed their vitriol in the painful and pitched tones of Anne’s voice. He need not sleep for the nightmares to come; as he sat in his carriage, the driver preparing the horses for a departure from the Roxborough estate, along the dark and muddy trails back to the Duchy of Amhurst, he needed only to close his eyes for his worst fears to come true.
He heard the slamming of the door; the wave of tears that trailed away into the hills and past the grand wrought-iron gate leading to the front door of Amhurst. He forced his eyes shut hard, wanting to dream them away; a little boy, terrified of creatures in the dark grasping at his feet, he shrunk in his bench-seat in the back of the luxurious carriage, his chest pounding. His nightmares flashed alive in his mind; he saw himself, wearing that same shabby suit his father had worn; carrying limply in his hand a bottle of brandy wickedly-dense with alcohol, the burn of it stinging his throat and the scent of it heavy on his breath. There he stood, alone, shaking, his head throbbing in the foyer of the Amhurst estate; clouds hung heavy in the windows as the lord looked up the stairs and saw himself.
A boy, sitting on the stairs, hiding from his father’s wrath; only his sister’s quietly cooed words calming him enough to stop the tears. He had become exactly what he had feared - a reprobate, using women for what they could offer his carnal needs and then tossing them away. While he knew he had made the right decision, the nightmares came back any time he closed his eyes. He opened them, briefly, letting the rising night sky pour dimly into his gaze; he heard the carriage driver ratcheting the horses’ harnesses tighter, and his own body lay rubbery and limp across the carriage seat. He wanted to slip into rest, and so he closed his eyes once again.
And the painful visions returned.
After that day on the stairs, his life had changed forever, but it would not be the last time. Mother left, and she di
d not return for many months; he saw the letters, heard father’s hushed orders to deliverymen and carriage drivers and every manner of maid and manservant to try to find his wife. His sister had taken care of him, raised him in that time; he rarely saw his father, if at all. The man languished in the depths of his study like a rotten tree, mold growing across its shattered bark; sensing his father’s growing portent of melancholy, young Lawrence had decided one evening that he would crawl from his bed after the sun fell and speak with his father, to try to brighten the old man’s spirits.
Instead, that night, as he crept towards the study, he heard rage; that same elemental rage he had heard erupt from his father on that day, upon the steps. He heard the rage flowing freely, in loud screams that shuddered the door upon its frame. Terrified, Lawrence thought to turn away; but something, perhaps an innate sense of curiosity, compelled him to the study; to open the door. He had done so surreptitiously, so sneakily and quietly that the door creaked open slowly, almost silently. Young Lawrence heard terrifying clatters and crashing noises, and when he tiptoed into the darkened doorway of the study, he saw his father, standing before the study’s blazing fireplace, hurling abuse at invisible demons of pain and drink and doubt swirling about him.
“She’s never coming back!” his father had shouted, grasping a nearly empty bottle in his hand; the old man, wearing a suit stained with brown splotches and thick with the scent of brandy, appeared to have cared little for himself in practically weeks; a scraggly beard grew along his face, his hair messy, his eyes reddened, and his face dirty. He angrily threw the glass bottle into the fire, feeding the last of its contents to the flame, the orange color bursting brightly alive with the sudden burst of fuel offered. Lawrence could spy that his father’s face was gripped not just by the cheek-burning and eye-reddening heat of a deep alcoholic stupor, but also by something he had never seen upon his father’s face - tears. His father, to him, had always been a rock; even with his troubles, he had always stood still and strong, the cross-trussed foundation upon which the rest of the Strauss family built itself.
Now, he had broken. He was crying. Loud, anguished sobs rose into the air; Lawrence hopped to the corner, slipping into the shadows behind an armoire that his father had flung open. Expensive porcelain and glass dishware lay scattered across the floor, but it seemed his father had not finished; with another primal and fearsome roar the old, drunk man grasped at the shelf atop his desk and ripped it from the wall in an ear-shattering clatter that forced a pained wince from terrified young Lawrence. He recognized that shelf - his father’s memories; small drawings, paintings, stories his father had written; his father’s diaries. Lawrence gulped as he watched his father grasp each volume, one by one, and begin to tear from leather bindings page upon page; pages of writings, of letters, of memories. His father tore each from its tome and threw them, crumpled into balls, into the raging flame lain before them both. Still wailing, his body tensing with anger, Lawrence watched as years of work, years of thoughts, years of dreams laid bare and feelings splayed out, fell into the flames, to be lost forever. And when his father finished he pulled the bindings of the books apart, tore them to bits, and threw them in behind the burning paper. Ashes danced and fell to the floor in front of him, as his father fell to his knees and watched the flames continue.
Mother eventually returned, and life eventually returned to as normal as it could be; his father never changed, though, and the arguments that had colored Lawrence’s childhood continued. As he grew, he hardened himself against the memories; he ignored them, lived on in spite of them. He spent his time among the hills and trees, or learning with his sister out on the grasses; he spent less time inside the mansion, though he had never then wondered just why he no longer felt safe within those walls.
He had never forgotten. He had simply ignored and moved on. But he had never forgotten.
Now his eyes flashed open and he felt his heart pulsing hard in his chest; his stomach did not feel right, and he could not shake the visions from lingering in his brain. He had thought those memories long ago vanquished, but in truth they had simply been subdued; quieted, so that he might not ever have to hear them again.
But having taken Anne’s body, he saw himself just as he had seen his father. He had taken from her something sacred, without even taking her hand in marriage - he had, just like his father, robbed a woman of her sanctity. How could he promise himself he would not fall to the lure of brandy and of loose women? How did he know he would not become a man, not unlike the Earl of Carteret? And how did he know that, having taken a woman’s innocence, he had not hurt her irreparably - ruined yet another life? She would find difficulty in courting and in finding love, now that he had claimed her. Each time he blinked, for that brief second of darkness, he saw Anne’s beautiful face, creased with anxiety and with age, bearing the weight of his sins; he could hear her screaming those same things his mother had, damning him for another night spent in the embrace of a woman not his own.
How could he know he would not wind up as that man in the study, his body quaking from alcohol and from love and from pain?
“M’lord,” the words of the carriage driver startled Lawrence, who nearly leapt from his seat at the sudden start of sound intruding into his memories of a laborious downfall. He turned and nodded to the driver, though he could feel his hands shake and his breath rattle hard in his throat from the anxiety still plucking at his nerves like so many out-of-tune harp strings. “Are you ready to depart? The horses are harnessed and ready. The road will be dark, and the rain has left some of it muddy, so I apologize deeply m’lord, but it may take some time to get back to the Amhurst estate,” the chauffeur warned.
“Yes, I understand, thank you,” Lawrence’s voice trembled. “Before we depart, let me stretch my legs,” he said. He could feel that if he did not stand and pace, he would spend the entirety of the trip wrestling with the painful and irritating need to bounce and bob and stretch and kick his anxious feet about the carriage cabin.
“We shall depart whenever you’re prepared, m’lord,” the man said with a nod. Lawrence swung his legs from the opened carriage door and stood upon them on the soggy cobblestone path; they felt weak beneath his weight, and the lightness in his head stung him suddenly, and he felt nearly ready to collapse. He closed his eyes again and saw her face - so full of pain, and took a few blind paces away from the vehicle set behind him. He swallowed hard, as shrieks of memories like wraiths excoriating him for his sins, echoed muffled through his mind. He could not make out the words, only the anger with which they sounded, and he always saw her face - Anne’s face, torn with the same pain he knew he would have inflicted upon her.
“Lawrence!” he heard, shouted; he thought it only to be a figment of his imagination, but when he heard her so clearly scream his name a second time, his eyelids opened quick and he saw her before him, standing with fervor in her eyes and blushes upon her cheeks.
“M’lady,” he said, startled. “It’s quite cold, do you think it proper to stand here beneath a rising moon wearing so light a garment?” he added, trying to still the emotions hot in his veins. He could see she clutched the contract he had penned in her white-knuckled grasp, and he gulped hard, readying himself for whatever protest she had come to bear down upon him.
“Lord Strauss, I don’t understand— we need to speak about this... contract,” she said, the word slithering with venom. She tried to address him with some measure of affectionate professionalism, but she could do little to mask the vitriol rising up hot in her chest.
“What’s not to understand?” he said, brooding, wrestling back that terrified screaming and shouting that nagged at his mind. He saw her face, and it so resembled his mother’s that he nearly fell upon his back, fearful that her specter had come to haunt him for his transgressions. Instead, he tried to address her with that same sense of flawed dignity that she had offered him. “I thought this was... well, precisely what you and your father have been looking for. Isn’t it? It is what you had hoped for from the moment you probed at my predilections at that dinner, m’lady,” he stated flatly. “You desire your own freedom... the freedom you deserve as a grown woman. A freedom from the cage you were unfortunately born in to. Your father agreed, and I hoped you would, too. It’d be for the best.”
