by Wolf, Bree
“Let us speak of more important matters than husbands,” Madeline continued, her usual eagerness once more taking over. “The Midnight Ball is in a fortnight. What are we going to wear?”
Chapter Two - A Hero’s Return
Grey clouds hung over Elmridge as Frederick Lancaster returned home. How long had it been since he had last been here? He wondered. Long enough for him to feel like a stranger, someone who did not belong. And yet, this was his home.
For a long time, Frederick sat on his gelding a good distance from the manor and stared at the house that he knew so well. He saw the window that he and his brother had climbed out of more than once in yet another search for adventure, the rose garden that his mother tended with the same care and devotion she bestowed on those she loved as well as the small family cemetery that now housed his father’s remains. The property looked like it always had, and yet, nothing was the same.
Never again would he hear his father’s gentle voice as he spoke to him about the many wonders life held. Never again would he see his mother’s smile as she looked at them, love shining in her eyes. Never again would he feel safe, almost invincible, as he had all those years he had spent on his family’s estate.
The harsh truth had finally found him, sinking its cruel talons into his flesh, refusing to ever release its hold on him. No, nothing was the same anymore.
Urging his horse on, Frederick felt a looming dread settle in his bones the closer he came to the manor. As he pulled up the reins, a stable boy came running to take the horse. “Welcome back, Lord Frederick.”
Nodding at the youngster, he turned and climbed the stairs, his feet heavy as lead. Two footmen opened the large double-doors, and Frederick entered the grand hall of Elmridge, his footsteps echoing through the vaulted room like thunder rolling off the mountains.
He should never have returned.
“Frederick!” his mother exclaimed behind him, and he turned toward her with a heavy heart.
Forcing a smile on his face, he slightly bowed his head to her as her dainty feet carried her across the marble hall and she all but threw herself into his arms. Her fragile arms closed around him, embracing him with a strength he never thought possible.
“Welcome home,” she whispered in his ear before she stepped back, her watchful eyes searching his face. Although clouded with grief, they still held a mother’s undying love for her son, and an unexpected warmth washed over his cold heart.
As her gaze slid over his face, taking in the small scar on his left temple, her hands gently brushed over his shoulders and down his arms as though asking about the wounds that lay hidden from her sight. She swallowed then and closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she looked at him again, a delicate smile played on her lips. “I am glad you have returned. I only wish your father were here to see you.”
Bowing his head, Frederick swallowed. “As do I, Mother.”
“Come,” she said, linking her arm through his. “You must be exhausted. I will have a bath drawn and food brought up to your room.”
As they walked up the large staircase, Frederick glanced left and right, waiting for the rest of his family to appear. All remained quiet though.
“I asked them to give you some time,” his mother said, once again knowing exactly where his thoughts had strayed. “Do not believe that they did not wish to see you,” she assured him, a tender smile curling up her lips. “However, I thought you might want some time to yourself first.” Her hand gently squeezed his arm. “I can call them if you wish.”
Frederick shook his head. “Not yet.”
She nodded and escorted him to the room that had been his for as long as he could remember. There she stopped, took his large hands in her small ones, looked deep into his eyes and then gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. “I’m so glad you are home,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears.
“As am I, Mother,” he said, hoping she could not read the lie in his eyes.
A smile came to her face, and she once more squeezed his hands before turning to go. “I’ll have water brought up,” she repeated as though reluctant to leave him.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said and entered his room, desperate to be alone with his thoughts.
***
Soaking in the tub, Frederick closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing warmth that engulfed his tense limbs. The water felt wonderful like a thick blanket wrapping him in its safety, and yet, it could not wash away the pain that lived in his heart.
With a deep sigh, he grabbed the soap and rubbed it along his tired limbs. The dust from the road washed away quickly, the scars, however, remained. Staring at the stab wound in his left shoulder, Frederick remembered the day he had received it.
The bayonet had come out of nowhere. He hadn’t even seen his opponent until it had been too late, and the cold steel had already dug its way into his body. A searing pain had brought him to his knees, and black spots had begun to dance before his eyes.
Slumping onto the blood-soaked earth, he had been certain his end was near.
The terror of the battlefield echoed in his ears as cries and shouts mixed with the heavy firing of canons and the lighter and faster firing of muskets. The stench of dying men, their hopelessness and fear mingling with the sweet smell of rain and the copper aroma of blood, still clung to his nostrils. No matter what he did or where he was, Frederick was forever doomed to relive these memories. They sought him out again and again as though his torment sustained them.
Like the bayonet, Kenneth, his childhood friend, had appeared as though rising from the earth itself.
Before the French soldier could finish Frederick, Kenneth bolted forward, his face twisted in an angry snarl as he came to his friend’s aid. Not hesitating for a moment, he had flung himself at the enemy soldier. They had exchanged a few blows; however, Kenneth had disarmed the man swiftly, who had then stared up at him, a dumbfounded expression on his face as Kenneth sunk his bayonet into his chest.
Relief had flooded Frederick’s heart upon seeing his friend succeed, knowing he would never have been able to live with himself if any harm had come to Kenneth because of him.
Still, he had returned to England alone.
With a deep sigh, he rose from the depth of the water, feeling the chill in the air on his wet skin. He dressed slowly, dreading the inevitable.
As he stood before the mirror, his eyes travelled over his appearance. How often had he looked into this mirror? A million times and more? Now, however, what he saw scared him. Somehow the dark in his heart had spread into every fibre of his being. He was not the man he once had been.
Now, his black hair seemed even darker as did his eyes, which were like looking into an abyss. They held nothing soft or tender but pierced their opposite with an icy stare. His strong chest and muscled arms ended in large hands that could rip a man to pieces. Hands that had taken more lives than he could remember. Hands that had not been able to save the one life he had cherished. Even above his own.
Looking at himself in the mirror, all Frederick saw was a monster.
Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and left his room. Would the others notice? He wondered. How could they not?
As he approached the drawing room, happy chatter reached his ears, and his muscles tensed. Involuntarily, he reached for his pistol, shaking his head as he realised the insanity of that action.
Clearing his throat, he walked into the room.
Instantly, it fell silent.
All eyes turned to him, and Frederick’s hands balled into fists as he forced himself to remain rooted to the spot. His legs quivered with the effort it took him not to bolt from the room.
Coward! His mind screamed.
Seated on the settee, his mother smiled at him, her eyes warm and full of affection. The sight almost turned Frederick’s stomach upside down.
Then his gaze shifted to his big brother as he stood by the mantle, his head turned to the door, one hand gently cupping his wife’s cheek. A big grin brok
e out on his face as he beheld Frederick, and dropping his hand, he strode forward. “Little brother, home at last!”
“Leopold,” Frederick said, slightly bowing his head.
His brother frowned. “Don’t be so formal,” he laughed before he drew Frederick into his arms, affectionately slapping him on the back. “It is good to see you.”
Feeling rather awkward, Frederick returned his brother’s embrace half-heartedly. In a far corner of his mind, he seemed to remember that such a sign of affection had come to him easily once. Now, however, it felt unnatural, and his muscles were unable to relax, tense almost to the point of breaking.
Standing back, Leopold smiled at him, his soft brown eyes searching his brother’s face. “You must tell me everything.”
Frederick cringed inwardly. “Later,” he mumbled, evading his brother’s eyes.
“Certainly.” Shaking his head as though suddenly remembering the other family members in the room, Leopold stepped back, grinning from ear to ear. He held out his hand, and his wife stepped forward, a smile on her beautiful features as she slipped her hand into his.
“Welcome home, Frederick,” Maryann said, a gentle smile curling up her lips as she placed a soft hand on his hard arm, planting a tender kiss on his cheek. “We are so relieved to have you back with us.”
“Thank you,” Frederick mumbled, not sure what else to say. He drew in a deep breath as Leopold as well as Maryann remained by his side, their closeness unnerving him more than the feeling of detachedness that he couldn’t seem to shake. He grew increasingly uncomfortable and wished for nothing more but the safe retreat to his room.
“Supper will be served shortly,” his mother announced as she rose from the settee, her eyes on him. “Would you care for a walk?”
The ghost of a smile crossed Frederick’s features. “I would like that. Thank you, Mother.”
“Sounds like a marvellous idea,” Leopold agreed, offering his arm to his wife. As he led her out the door, Frederick’s heart sank. What he wouldn’t do for a little peace and quiet?
His mother softly slipped her arm through his and drew him forward. “You must be patient with them,” she whispered. “They have been very worried about you especially since…”
“Father’s death?”
His mother nodded before looking up at him, and he could see the hint of tears clinging to her eyelashes. “They wish to be happy again, and you coming home is the greatest gift we could have hoped for especially in such a dark hour.”
Frederick swallowed, his gaze fixed on the setting sun as they walked down the small gravel path to the garden labyrinth that bordered the manor to the west.
Leopold and Maryann walked a few feet ahead of them, her arm through his, his hand gently cupping hers. Now and then, his brother would lean over and whisper something in her ear, and her eyes would turn to him, gazing up into his with a deep love shining in them.
At his side, his mother remained silent, and Frederick took a deep breath, enjoying the late afternoon air as it filled his lungs. Delicate fragrances danced on the slight breeze, and he felt the beginnings of a headache subside. As his muscles began to relax, he closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, cherishing the quiet stillness that engulfed him and soothed his aching heart.
However, with supper, he found himself in hell once again.
Seated around the large dining room table, the family engaged in friendly conversation. Besides his mother, Leopold and Maryann, their six-year-old daughter Mathilda sat at the table, eyeing him with open curiosity.
Frederick wanted to squirm.
Occasionally, they addressed him as though feeling the need to include him in their conversation. Frederick, however, would have preferred to be left alone, and so he answered with mind-numbing indifference. Most of the time, he had no idea what they were talking about, and yet, he could not bring himself to care.
As the evening progressed, the conversation shifted from societal events and the estate’s business to the war, and Frederick felt the blood pulse in his veins. As time passed and no one sought his opinion of the matter, Frederick began to relax until Leopold turned to him, inconspicuous interest in his eyes, and asked, “We have heard that Napoleon uses a new, lighter kind of canon. Do they truly work more efficiently?”
For a long minute, Frederick stared at his brother. More efficiently? He thought. In what way? Tearing men’s bodies apart?
He glanced at his little niece, munching on her roast beef. What was he to say? Ought he to explain how a cannon ball tore apart a human body, scattering its parts over a great distance, soaking the earth with litres of blood?
Shaking his head, Frederick swallowed, and looking at his brother, he knew as clear as day that nothing in this world could ever paint a true picture of the horrors of war. Leopold did not know. For all the intelligence he possessed, he could not comprehend the savagery and gruesomeness that could be found on a battlefield. Like animals, civilised men tore each other apart, their eyes burning with hatred for an enemy they did not know. An enemy who thought of them the same way. As time passed, that hatred would vanish replaced by numbing stillness until one could not even glimpse remnants of the soul anymore. Even if one survived, one would be dead. A hollow vessel, for the spark of life had been extinguished.
For good.
Clearing his throat, Frederick nodded, his eyes focused on his plate. “Indeed, they are.”
Sensing his brother’s reluctance to speak about his experience, Leopold steered the conversation back to a more neutral topic. “Lord Branston reminded me of the invitation to his annual Midnight Ball. I already reminded him that you will not be attending since you are still in mourning,” he said to his mother, who nodded, her fingers reaching for the small silver bracelet her husband had given her for their first anniversary almost thirty years ago. “However,” he continued, turning to Frederick, “he is very eager for you to make an appearance.”
The blood froze in Frederick’s veins.
Leopold laughed. “I suppose as a war hero you would be quite the attraction at any event. The ladies will be all over you.”
“Leopold!” Maryann chided, slapping him good-naturedly on the arm. However, she was instantly comforted by his charming smile and apologetic words.
“I told him you would be happy to come,” his brother continued when his wife turned her attention back to the food on her plate. “I hope that was all right? I figured you would enjoy an occasion to reconnect with your friends and acquaintances.”
Swallowing a rebuke, Frederick nodded, forcing the hint of a smile on his face. “Certainly.”
His brother’s brows narrowed. “You do not wish to attend?”
Frederick sighed and met his brother’s eyes. “No, Leopold,” he spoke, his voice harsh with suppressed anger and open frustration. “To tell you the truth, I have no desire to be surrounded by old tattletales, scheming mothers and envious, disgruntled gentlemen, who are merely interested in elevating themselves by association. All they care about is tales of heroic deeds as though such a thing truly existed. They know nothing of war, and what is worse, they don’t want to know. Not the cold, hard truth, at least.”
Silence hung over the dining room, and Frederick felt a pang of guilt as his family looked at him with sorrowful eyes.
He took a deep breath. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to spoil everyone’s appetite.” Rising from his chair, he bowed to his mother. “I believe it best I retire early tonight. My travels have worn me out. I trust a good night’s sleep will do me some good.”
His mother nodded, and yet, her eyes said that she didn’t believe him. “Good night, Frederick. It is wonderful to have you back home.”
Smiling at her, Frederick turned and left the dining room without looking back. His feet carried him up the stairs and into his room. He closed the door and locked it behind himself. Leaning against the smooth, wooden surface, Frederick closed his eyes.
He should never have returned.
&nb
sp; Despite the sliver of hope that had carried him through the day, Frederick knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was no way back to his old life. The man he had once been didn’t exist anymore, and the man he had become did not fit into the life he had left behind.
What was he to do now?
Dropping down onto the bed, Frederick didn’t bother to undress. However, as he closed his eyes, images resurfaced that he had hoped to have left behind.
It had been a futile wish.
An anguished moan escaped his mouth, and he rubbed his hands over his face. The one person who would have understood what it felt like to be thrust back into this life was dead. His remains buried somewhere on the continent. Lost and forgotten.
No one who had not walked to the edge of the world and almost fallen off would understand the despair that lived in his heart, poisoning him a little more each day until one day there would be nothing left of him.
Then he would be truly dead.
Frederick hoped that day would come sooner rather than later.
Read on!
