by Bree Wolf
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 hopeless-ness 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. Some-how 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 broke 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. Be-sides 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 r
oast 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 gruesome-ness 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.
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 under-stand 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.
Chapter Three − The Loss of a Friend
Trapped in a drawing room with his mother and his sister-in-law as well as a handful of female visitors, Frederick was ready to shoot himself.
Standing to the side of the armchair Maryann currently occupied, he did his best to blend into the background as the ladies, most of whom had not called on Maryann or his mother in a long time, chatted on eagerly. Again and again, he found adoring eyes sweep over him in a scrutinising manner as though trying to unearth his secrets.
And yet, worse than the stares were the rather uneducated and insensitive questions they asked.
“How many enemies did you kill?” I didn’t stop to count.
“Were you wounded?” It was war. What do you think, my lady?
A chubby matron elbowed the woman who had asked the question. “My dear Lady Bertram, do you not see the dashing scar on his temple?” She winked at him. “I say it makes you look like a pirate.”
Frederick took a deep breath.
“Do you still carry a pistol?” I wish I was.
“Do the French truly look like evil men?” They are no more evil than you and me.
All these questions hailed down on him in a matter of minutes that Frederick didn’t even know where to begin, much less how to answer without causing affront. However, to his great relief, he soon realised that an occasional nod or shake of his head sufficed, and the ladies flew into yet another rant about what a marvellous experience war had to have been for him.
Slipping out of the room after half an hour, Frederick breathed a sigh of relief, his feet directing him toward the stairs and the safety of his room without conscious thought.
“Brother!”
Frederick froze, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, willing Leopold to simply walk away.
Unfortunately, it didn’t work.
“Would you care to join us?”
Reluctantly, Frederick turned around and found his brother standing by the foot of the stairs, a group of men crowding around him.
Not unlike the ladies, the gentlemen eyed him with a mixture of admiration and curiosity; and yet, some faces held a hint of envy etched in their eyes.
Forcing a somewhat pleasant expression on his face, Frederick joined them in the study for a glass of brandy and a cigar. Talk soon circled around to the war, and Frederick once again did his best to retreat into the shadows, hoping to be overlooked.
Unfortunately, it didn’t work.
Although the men’s questions were of a more technical nature, they were no less insensitive. Gritting his teeth, Frederick tried to stay calm as he felt the blood pulsing in his veins. If he could only show these fools that war was neither a game nor a business endeavour!
Before he could explode, his brother placed a hand on his shoulder, steering the conversation back to the Midnight Ball that was to take place in three days. Especially the younger, unmarried gentlemen were eager to discuss the attending ladies, and soon Frederick was able to escape the room in much the same fashion as before.
Shaking his head, he wondered how much more of this he could take before losing his mind.
In the hall, he came upon his mother. As unease seized his heart, he quickly scanned his surroundings for a potential flock of chattering ladies following close on her heel.
A gentle smile came to his mother’s face. “I am alone,” she said, brushing a hand down his arm. Lately, he had noticed that she so
ught a physical contact as though needing to reassure herself that he was really there.
He sighed. “I cannot understand what these people are doing here,” he moaned, doing his best to keep the desperation he felt out of his voice so as not to alert his mother. “Are there not enough war stories circling around that they have to beg for more?”
His mother cupped a hand to his cheek, gentle eyes looking into his. “Just humour them. Tell them what they want to hear,” she advised, “and before long, they will leave you alone.”
Frederick nodded. “I suppose you are right, Mother. However, I do not know how much more of this I can bear.”
“Why don’t you go for a ride?” his mother suggested. “Get some air and clear your head. You’ll feel better.”
Again, Frederick nodded, and after thanking his mother, he headed straight for the stables.
As the wind whipped in his face and he saw the horizon shine in the distance, Frederick felt some of the strain of the last few days fall from his weary muscles.
The ache in his bones, however, remained.
***
“You have a visitor, Lord Frederick,” Wilton, Elmridge’s butler, announced as they sat down for dinner.
“Who is it?” Frederick moaned. Would this never end?
“The Earl of Cullingwood.”
Almost jumping to his feet, Frederick turned to his mother, who nodded her head, a pleased smile on her face. “Do not worry about us. Go see your friend.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Frederick replied and hurried out of the room. Long strides carried him down the corridor and toward the front drawing room. For a moment, he stopped outside the door and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since they had last seen each other; not since he and Kenneth had gone off to war, and Oliver had remained behind.
Entering the room, Frederick found his friend staring out the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. Although a hint of melancholy hung about him, he looked like he always had. His auburn hair gave his rather pale complexion a bit of a glow as he stood tall, shoulders squared, and sipped his drink. His pale blue eyes were distant, and frown lines darkened the face that used to shine with laughter more than any other Frederick had ever seen.
