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A rapping at the door pulled Lord Beckham from a stormy reverie; that recurring dream, haunting him again, like a spectre 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 blase 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, c
onnected 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 Havenshsire. 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."
"How do you know of her?" Lord Beckham asked, strolling to the window near the staircase. He approached slowly, letting the light filter into his muddied mind bit by bit, so as not to overwhelm his constitution, rendered fragile by a night of drink, all at once. Ms. Cauthfield sighed dismissively.
"Again, I apologize for mentioning these sorts of frivolities, I know how you feel about them," Ms. Cauthfield said by way of disclaimer. "A letter arrived from the Havenshire Manor this morning. Apparently word passed to the duke there, a lovely but ailing old man, that you had spoken a fair few words of conversation to his daughter." Lord Beckham sighed in response.
"Word passed to him, did it?" he scoffed. Both he and Ms. Cauthfield knew just who had 'passed word'.
"You know just how much Lady Henrietta enjoys hearing herself speak, m'lord, particularly when it comes to matters of gossip at dinner parties. I hadn't known she would be at that particular event last night, m'lord, elseways I would have known some manner of gossip as this would get out, and would have advised against your attendance," Ms. Cauthfield lamented. "I'm certain it's simply Lady Henrietta making mere introductions and pleasantries out to be some grand manner of conspiracy or affair, as she is often willing to do. I apologize for even broaching the subject, m'lord. I simply worried for your health this morning."
"No, you needn't apologize," Lord Beckham responded, considering deeply the possibilities before him. No doubt Lady Henrietta had exaggerated what had happened between he and Lady Havenshire. It struck him with poignancy the predicament Lord Havenshire suffered - he realized the ailing man's desire to marry his daughter off, so as to keep the inheritance of wealth and estate within his family. He gazed across the grasses, watching the farmers work their lands; watching life bustle along the roadways in the small town, off in the distance, on the edges of Berrewithe estate. "What manner of meeting does the Lord Havenshire request?" Ms. Cauthfield seemed taken aback by the question, not having expected her master would be at all interested in the letters and gossip of women like Lady Henrietta.
"I'm... not quite certain, to be honest, m'lord, I didn't think would ask on its contents," Ms. Cauthfield replied. "James, I believe, mentioned words about an inheritance, or a discussion thereof—"
"Of course," the duke responded bitterly, his heart stung.
"I've... well, I've heard rumor that Lord Havenshire's health has... failed, quite rapidly, in the passing months, m'lord," Lady Cauthfield added, standing loyally attentive near the stairwell. Her own thoughts began to suddenly turn on the matter of the inheritance, and the duke's daughter - and she began herself to see an opportunity for her master. "Perhaps, you... could hear him out? I know it's a trivial matter, likely inflated by the impetuous chatter of Lady Henrietta, but... well, I think it might be good for you to speak to him, and to speak again to his daughter. She may be quite a lovely woman."
"She is," Lord Beckham sighed, much to Ms. Cauthfield's wide-eyed surprise. "She's worldly, capable, intelligent, stunning. She's what one would want and expect of a true noblewoman," Lord Beckham lamented. So surprised to hear words such as those coming from her master, Ms. Cauthfield's voice grew urgent.
"So it's not simple hearsay or gossip from Lady Henrietta? M'lord, certainly you'll go and see the duke and his daughter, then?" she asked, hopefully.
"No, I shant," Lord Beckham said in disappointment, deflating his servant.
