Angel of Ash

by Law, Josephine

  But his mind filled with thoughts, thoughts of revenge, if he could not make Deborah pay for the pain which she caused him, he’d make Angel pay, had made her pay, this marriage was a sham, he’d make no mockery of pretending it was anything but, he’d kill her innocence like his had been, he’d make her feel the pain which allowed him no rest. She had no idea what love was, would never know. Damn her soul to hell if she ever betrayed him as Deborah had done.

  The anger, pain and betrayal of the past ate away at Asher as he stared into the dark night of the outside; there was no compassion, no softness, nothing, as memory after memory of years long ago spent rushed him in their agony and pain. He crushed that small part of him that would grant Angel leniency, for that part, that part was weakness, that part would be his death, instead of hers. For self-preservation he mapped his plan out, mapped Angel’s life out, he’d punish her, he had the means now, punish her for lies long ago spoken, punish her for betrayal long ago…but still remembered. Forgiveness had no part of him; forgiveness was an emotion unknown to Asher.

  The forgiveness which could have saved him was hidden from him, from his heart, his mind, his soul. Instead, anger blossomed, radiated, cold calculating anger meant to hurt, meant to inflict any measure of pain possible grew and festered in his soul until any compassion, any weakness was buried, buried in the dark, cold worm filled grave along with a woman whom killed what Asher had once been.

  Angel never went to sleep, she could not, for she was afraid that she would oversleep and awaken in the strange room and find herself deserted, find Asher and the horsemen long gone, Asher unsaddled with a wife he’d never wanted. And so instead, during the wee hours of the morning, she mapped out plan after plan, plans to turn Asher to her. Plans to make him love her make him forget his past which ate away at him, make him forget that woman whom hurt him. Make him forget the memories that would see her no rest.

  Staring outside her window, her brow was marred with a frown, remembering everything that pleased Asher, and everything that did not. But more often than not, her mind drew a blank, for she really did not know him at all. The few things she did know, she had learned from his sister or brothers, and the few things he’d told her, did not really tell her anything at all.

  But she made it her mission to find out, to undertake the greatest mission of her life, to give her whole to another human being with one small expectation: that he would give just a small part of himself to her.

  Angel was dressed pleasantly, in a bright yellow morning traveling dress since the day promised to be clear and shining, or so the innkeeper had told her. She waited expectantly for Asher, watching the stairs for his arrival as she sat alone in the corner of the room, hungry but wanting to eat with her husband, so therefore she could ignore her growling stomach as she’d ignored her body which had needed to rest.

  Instead, she kept her mind filled with thoughts, conversations, gifts she could give Asher as she watched with her heart in throat.

  Finally, after what seemed like long minutes he finally came down, his brow furrowed, the heavy thud of his boots resonating clear through Angel’s soul with every thump. He did not see Angel sitting there in the corner, alone, as he settled the bill with the innkeeper. It was the innkeeper who pointed to her, and Asher glanced disinterestedly over his shoulder to find her eyes upon him as he perused her figure before turning back towards the innkeeper.

  “Tell my wife,” he said, the word wife strangled from him. “That the carriage is ready.” He said, and proceeded out the door without turning around.

  Angel bit her lip, storing once again, that small rejection of her person, tucked away deep where the pain would not go away. Instead she bravely smiled for the innkeeper as he looked at her with something akin to sympathy and disgust, for which partner of the marriage she knew not, and kindly asked her if she would like to take a basket of food with her.

  But Angel knew the wait would be too long and she instead rushed out, finding Asher overseeing the men outside.

  Instead of waiting she escorted herself into the carriage and waited, instead for him. He joined her a moment later, closing the door behind himself.

  “Good morning, my lord, Angel said softly, ready for the rejection, the unspoken words, stilling her heart and mind.

  A brief pause, no smile dared grace his lips. Instead he sighed wearily before answering, already tired of her. “The same to you, my lady.” The words weren’t filled with love, of course not; they were cordial, at best, as if Angel was a passing stranger whom had no meaning in his existence.

  But Angel, love sickened fool she was, stored those words into her heart, and smiled slightly, not daring to risk his anger, when she gotten his words. Instead she turned towards the window her thoughts pleasant, but still formulating plans.

  An hour later, she risked talking to him again.

  “Did you sleep well, sir?” She asked, respectful and expectant.

  He nodded.

  She nodded back.

  He turned towards his window.

  She turned towards hers.

  Another hour later, she spoke again.

  “It is a beautiful day, is it not…not a cloud in sight.” She commented.

  And for her words, she got another nod, and a softly spoken, ‘yes’.

  She dared risk no more.

  The rest of the trip was spent in silence, Angel ignoring her sleep deprivation and growling stomach. It was Asher who took notice of the one, if not the other.

  “Go to sleep, lady, we will not stop for the night, we are too close to London. I will awaken you once we arrive at my town home.”

  Angel nodded, moved closer to the corner, leaning her head against the sturdy carriage and fell asleep within seconds.

  As he watched her, he thought cynically, how naïve she appeared to be, how innocent she wished me to believe. But he knew better. Knew she had ulterior motives spun in the dark web like recesses of her mind. But he enjoyed her beauty nevertheless, the dark thick tangle of lashes that fanned upon her, the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her mouth.

  He refused that weakness that wished to touch her, instead steeling himself to her deceptive lure he turned towards the window and watched his life pass him by.

  Asher woke her hours later, the hour dark, close to midnight, the streets of London covered with a light fog. They were within a mile of his home. Shaking her slightly, he spoke no word, but watched her awaken with a trained eye, looking no worse for wear as she rubbed bleary eyes.

  “We have arrived?” She asked, glancing around.

  “Yes,” he said, and even as he spoke, the carriage drew to a slow halt, the men opening the door and placing the steps out. He left first, but this time he turned towards her, helping her down, not touching her hand, however, but her arm, her sleeve. She followed him inside the brightly lit house, the servants, even though the hour late, respectful, welcoming the new mistress in the large four storied town home of Asher’s home.

  It was the butler who greeted the two, taking their coats as the rest of the servants stood in line and as the housekeeper made the introductions. The female servants curtseying, the male ones bowing. Angel put on a brave face, an even braver and warm smile and listened attentively to each introduction, memorizing each face. After introductions, Asher ordered a light repast for the two in his room and a bath in hers for now.

  Alone, for now, Angel was in trepidation, she’d finished her bathe, dressed in her robes and had heard the knock that informed her dinner was ready in Asher’s room, the two suites connected by a long hallway. Bracing herself, she opened the door in her room, and walked through the dark hallway, before stopping to knock on his door.

  At the word ‘enter’ she did, to see Asher in front of the fire, a decanter of some foreign drink in his hand, he too had bathed, his hair curling, the shadows and light from the fire casting his golden body in dark and lights. Her breath caught at his splendid form as she closed the door.

  “Come, dinn
er is ready,” he said, pulling her chair out for her.

  Taking her seat, she waited for him to join her, shaking her napkin out and placing it over her lap. Fingers trembling, she reached for her glass of wine, and took a small sip, and then when he wasn’t looking, a longer sip, hoping to calm her nerves. The wine and the food were plentiful, good and warm, and Angel lost track of the time, even though the dinner was spent in near silence. However, by her fourth glass of wine, Angel felt her tongue loosen and her cares fall fleetingly to the floor.

  “Thank you, Asher,” she said, smiling widely at him, her eyes wide and adoring.

  Asher cocked one eyebrow, stilling the fork in his hand. “For what, my lady?”

  “Why for inviting me to dinner, of course,” she said, giggling slightly and hiding her giggles behind one hand. “This is the first time I’ve dined with a man in his sleeping chambers. But I have dined with a man alone…” she began.

  He pretended nonchalance, spearing his meat and chewing it slowly. “Really, who?”

  “My father…but does he count?” Her giggles again. “Oh, dear, do I talk to much? Perhaps that is why you never talk, because I always talk.”

  Smiling she pretended to close her lips and throw away the lock as Asher looked on with patient condescension. “I believe you have had too much to drink, my lady.”

  “My lady,” Angel said. “I enjoy it when you say that. Except when you say that and I know you don’t really mean it. You rarely really mean it. It’s like calling someone who annoys you, ‘dear’. Yes, dear. No, dear. Whatever may be, dear. If that is the way you feel, dear. I’m your ‘dear’ aren’t I?” Angel grew melancholy, wishing she could shut her mouth but unable to, the wine making her loose the little self-respect she had contained. “That’s alright. I probably won’t even mind you saying that to me.”

  “And why is that?”

  A pause, Angel lifted up eyes that were bravely honest. “Because you’ll still be speaking to me. Your voice, I hear it in my dreams. Smooth, seductive, angry, cold…sometimes, even warm, the first day we were together. When I’m in your arms. Your voice is warm then. I feel, almost as if you care…cared about me. Stupid, I know, I know I’m stupid. You did not want to marry me, so you cannot care for me.” Looking up expectantly she tried to smile, but it fell flat. “Can you?” She asked.

  “My lady,” Asher began.

  “No, no, call me, dear,” she said softly.

  He couldn’t, and yet, couldn’t say her name, either. “No matter what the reason may be, we are now married. No point in wondering the how’s about it. You are legally my wife; you are mine, as you so wished it. Shall you complain, now that your bed has been made by you?”

  “Asher-”

  “No, my lady,” he gritted out, interrupting her. “We shall make the best out of this loveless marriage. I do not love you, I will never love you but my grave is now made. I will honor the vows spoken by me but do not confuse this marriage for a love match, my lady. It is anything but.”

  That small door opened again, that small door that cradled his harsh words deep inside her soul as Angel looked with misery at her now congealing food upon her plate.

  Managing to fight back her tears, she nodded when he was finished condemning her, to show that she understood. In this marriage, she was nothing but a burden to him, a mistake he could not undo.

  “Do you understand, my lady? Throw those useless plans away as to how you shall try to seduce me into loving you. They will not work, enjoy our time here, we shall be distant companions, no more. I will give you an allowance and see to your needs, other than that; there is little we can do for each other. I have my life. I do not want it entangled by this new burden of my marriage.”

  He paused, staring at her bowed head, he noticed the tears falling to the plate beneath her, but ignored them. “There is nothing that you can do for me as my wife, my lady. There is nothing I want from you. Not your companionship, not your love. The most you can give me is your sex. And that I already have had.” He stopped, staring at her bent head. “Do you understand?”

  She made no motions, other than biting her lip as the tears refused to halt.

  “My lady, do you understand!” He asked sharply, angrily and Angel jumped as if he’d hit her, standing up, escaping his room, escaping his caustic words and running to the safety of her chambers.

  “Damn you,” Asher said after her departing form. “Damn you.” He returned before hurling his glass into the fireplace.

  Angel woke up with a fine headache, she seemed to have one every day since the night of the accident, as Angel began to come to think of it. The accident when she’d gotten in the way of Asher’s and Walter’s fight and had flown and hit her head upon the piano. The scar in her hair, was still there, would always be there, as would the scar in her heart. She remembered all too well, Asher’s words from the night before, even though she drank nearly a bottle of wine by herself. She wished she had not remembered them, wished she’d drank herself into oblivion as most people seemed to enjoy doing.

  After bathing and dressing, Angel made her way downstairs, pretending for pretension’s sake to feel calm, well mannered, remote when what she wanted most in life, at that very moment was to run, like a madwoman into the dark oblivion of life, run from her love of a man who cared not for her.

  Instead, she met the housekeeper downstairs, who was waiting for her, respectful older woman that she was with an extra set of keys she immediately, gave Angel, keys to Asher’s house, keys she had no right to.

  “Mistress,” Mrs. Bates began. “Good morning, would you break your fast before we began for the day?”

  Angel shook her head, food did not agree with her this morning. “No, thank you, Mrs. Bates. We may began if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Yes, mistress,” Mrs. Bates said. “I believe we can began with the basement and work our way to the fourth floor since we are just one floor up.”

  Angel nodded. “That will be fine, Mrs. Bates.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  So polite, the two were, as Angel studied the housekeeper with a sharp eye. How much did she know about their sham of a marriage? But if Mrs. Bates knew, she did not reveal anything through her dark brown eyes.

  “Shall we?” Mrs. Bates said, escorting Angel to the waiting stairways and then door that led to the basement of the house where the wine, heavy foods such as flour and meal and storage space were kept.

  Everything about the house was in order, from the two cats that saw to the clearing of all small rodents, to the cleanliness of the kitchens, to the daily schedule for all bed changing.

  Angel, all though asking the questions, could not think of one thing that she wished to change from the day to day operations of the household and so six hours later, with a light repast, found herself outside the home, in the small gardens, giving herself a tour, as she so wished of it, and sitting outside upon a stone bench, hidden from view of the house by Spanish moss trees, wild roses and English oak.

  Mrs. Bates had informed her that Asher left in the wee hours of the morning for his office, earlier than usual; usually he would not leave until eight. But this morning, he’d left close to six after a light breakfast and informing his valet not to expect him home well until after dark. Angel found some sense of shame that she must unearth Asher’s where about from the servants and promised herself she would not ask after him anymore, to spare herself the embarrassment of appearing the love sick fool in front of strangers.

  Standing from the bench, Angel smelled the roses and the wild flowers before heading back inside to write letters to her father and Hunter and her aunt. The hardest letter was to her father, whom she missed dreadfully, but hoped to see. Perhaps, Asher would allow her to visit him, even though some large part of her knew that the request would be rejected, just so that he could find joy in her pain. As Angel penned her letter she adamantly made it seem as if she had fallen head over heels in love with Asher and they had married, refusing to
write of the scandal that had surrounded the reason for their marriage.

  Sighing, Angel escaped from her drear filled thoughts and penned her letters, handing them to the butler, Mr. Bates, with the promise that he would send the letters off himself.

  Afterwards with a headache which refused to go away, but increasingly worsened, Angel retired to her room, undressed except for her thin linen shift and fell into a restless sleep.

  He didn’t ask her whereabouts, he could not bring himself to ask, as Mr. Bates informed him of the morning household operations. He’d come home because he’d forgotten important legal papers and instead of entrusting the delicate papers to an aid, he’d seen to the matter himself.

  Passing the foyer dresser where mailings were sent out, he shifted through them, making sure that all his papers were being sent out and stopped short at Angel’s handwriting, the three envelopes, she herself wanted to be sent out.

  “I will see to these mailings, myself, Bates,” Asher informed his butler, stuffing all of the envelopes in his inner coat pocket, before heading to his office where he found his legal documents.

  It was Mrs. Bates who stopped him before he could escape the house which no longer felt like his any longer.

  “My lord,” she said, quickly walking towards him on slightly plumb feet with a worried brow upon her face.

  Stopping Asher turned with impatient importance and waited until she reached him with one cocked eyebrow. “Yes, Mrs. Bates?” He asked.

  “My lord, it is about your wife,” she began, her worry deepening further.

  “What is the matter?” He asked, his voice, unknowingly darkening.

  Mrs. Bates looked affronted, for one quick second before the emotion flitted from her face. “She is not feeling well, my lord, she retired to her room hours ago. I went to check on her and her head hurts dreadfully and she felt hot to my touch. It is now five my lord and her condition has not improved, but has increasingly worsened. Would you like Dr. Jenkins to be called?”