by Rose Pearson
Lady Markham shook her head, tears in her eyes and evidence of her weeping on her cheeks. Her face was pale and her brown curls were tumbling down from her elegant coiffure. The bonnet she had been wearing was now dangling lazily at the back of her neck, the ribbons tight about her neck. All in all, Lady Markham looked utterly miserable and completely worn out.
“Come, Miss Harland,” Mr. Morris said, gruffly, getting her to her feet. “There now. You are certain you are well?”
“Well enough,” Deborah whispered, her eyes on Lord Abernathy as he stood, trembling, with his back still to her. “Lady Markham, whatever has happened?”
Lady Markham looped her arm through Deborah’s and held on tightly with the other, as though she thought their combined presence would sustain each other.
“Lady Cavendish,” Lady Markham whispered, evidently too afraid to mention her name aloud in the hearing of her brother. “I am glad I chose to go with my brother, Deborah. It was truly terrible.”
Deborah swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on Lord Abernathy’s back and wishing she could express all that was in her heart. “I am sorry,” she said, loud enough for Lord Abernathy to hear. “I know you had great hopes, Your Grace.”
He twisted towards her suddenly, his face wreathed with anger and darkness. It was as though he had stepped back into the shadows, that he was once again clouded by the darkness and the fear that had held him when she had first arrived.
“That means nothing to me, Miss Harland,” he snarled, as Lady Markham clutched her hands tighter. “Your compassion and your words of sympathy mean nothing! They do not take away my distress nor my pain!” His voice grew louder, his presence almost malevolent as he seemed to loom large over them. “You told me, Miss Harland, that I should be accepted by Lady Cavendish. You gave me hope!”
She swallowed her fear and lifted her chin. “I said no such thing, Your Grace,” she said, clearly. “I stated that if Lady Cavendish’s feelings were true, then –”
“And it seems they are not!” he roared, swiping the air between them. “She took one look at this face, this ravaged, monstrous face and fled from me!” He looked more than angry now, his face a deep, furious red, his hands clenched into fists and every muscle in his body tight with rage. “She would not so much as look at me! I am nothing more than a gargoyle!”
So saying, he turned around and ran headlong up the staircase, back to his rooms. Deborah did not know what to do, hearing Lady Markham weeping quietly beside her and finding herself so shocked and stunned by what she had heard that for a moment, her feet were fastened to the floor.
“My lady.”
Mr. Morris was the first to speak.
“My lady, what should we do?”
Lady Markham looked up, her eyes fixing onto Deborah’s. “I – I do not know.” Deborah felt her sway and grasped her arm, suddenly alarmed that the lady would faint.
“I think Lady Markham should rest,” Deborah said, quickly, seeing Mrs. Denton coming towards them, evidently having finished below stairs. “Mrs. Denton, might I leave Lady Markham into your care? She has had something of a shock.” Seeing Lady Markham’s eyes on her, Deborah managed a tiny smile, trying to reassure the lady who had become her friend. “Mr. Morris and I shall go in search of His Grace,” she finished. “I will bring you news just as soon as I can.”
Lady Markham nodded, her eyes filling with fresh tears that sparkled and gleamed as she turned away. Deborah closed her eyes tightly, fighting against the urge to break down into tears and give in to the shock that was rifling through her, knowing that she had a duty to care for Lord Abernathy and Lady Markham as best she could. Praying for strength, she took in a long breath and let it shudder out of her, feeling a flicker of determination burn back within her heart.
“The master has gone to his rooms, I think,” Mr. Morris said, as Deborah turned towards him. “I just pray that he will not do anything foolish.”
A sudden, terrible fear clutched at Deborah’s heart and she did not hesitate for even a moment. Running towards the stairs, she took them two at a time, hearing Morris’ labored breathing behind her.
She reached Lord Abernathy’s rooms just in time to hear a loud crash. Her heart in her throat, she forced herself to wait for Mr. Morris to catch up with her, her ear pressed flat against the door.
“There was the sound of something smashing,” she told him, seeing his white face. “Whatever can Lord Abernathy be doing?”
Mr. Morris set his shoulders and drew himself up. “We must go within,” he stated, firmly. “Come, Miss Harland. You may follow behind me.”
Deborah nodded and stepped aside, her fears tumbling one over the other as she waited for Mr. Morris to open the door.
“Your Grace?” Mr. Morris cried, loudly. “Might we come in?”
Silence.
“We must press ahead,” Deborah said urgently, not wanting to wait for Lord Abernathy to reply in either the negative or the affirmative. “Time will not wait for us.”
Mr. Morris nodded. “We are to enter, Lord Abernathy,” he called, before pushing open the door wide and stepping inside.
Deborah caught her breath. The room was precisely as she recalled it the first time she had been introduced to the Duke. It was completely dark aside from the small fire that burned in the center of the room. He had not lit any candlesticks but had simply tugged at the drapes until the room had become completely shrouded in gloom. She could not tell what the smashing had been, frightened that he had done something to injure himself further.
“I do not want you here.”
At the sound of Lord Abernathy’s voice, Deborah found herself going weak with relief.
“We are concerned for you, Lord Abernathy,” she said, honestly, going towards the drapes. “Whatever has happened, there is no need for you to retreat in this way.”
“Do not dare pull back that curtain!”
Deborah hesitated, her hands already on the fabric. It slipped in her hands as she hesitated, hearing the muted anger in his voice and finding herself a little afraid.
“I must, Your Grace,” she whispered, softly, as though she needed to apologize for what she was about to do. “How can I see if you are uninjured without the light?”
There was a moment of silence but Deborah found herself quite unable to act. She remained frozen in place, fearful of what the Duke might do should she disobey him. This had not been how she had acted before, of course, but back then, she had not known him as well as she did now. Her heart was torn with sympathy for him, although with it came the shock of how he had both treated and spoken to her. When he had first thrown things at her, she had thought him rude, cruel and terribly harsh. He had apologized and their friendship had grown steadily over the last few weeks. Now that they had this new intimacy to their acquaintance, she found it all the more difficult to accept that he had changed to such a harsh creature yet again. She knew he had not meant to knock her to the ground and that it had been entirely accidental, but his lack of concern for her thereafter, the way he had not so much as glanced back at her, tore at her heart.
“Leave me, Miss Harland. Mr. Morris, you are not to attend to me again this evening.”
Mr. Morris stammered something and looked helplessly in Deborah’s direction, although Deborah barely managed to make him out.
“I do not think I can do so, Lord Abernathy,” she whispered, feeling her heart beating painfully within her. “I must help you in whatever way I can, even if it is to go against what you desire.” Her voice grew stronger as she recalled how distressed Lady Markham had been. “For your sister’s sake also.”
In saying this, she flung back one drape and tucked it away. Light streamed in as she pulled back the other side of the drape, shuddering at the roar that came from Lord Abernathy as she disobeyed his direct order.
“A tea tray, if you please, Mr. Morris,” she said, continuing to ignore Lord Abernathy and keeping her eyes fixed on the butler. “And it might be wise to remove the bra
ndy from this room, before His Grace notices that it has been done.” By the light that came from the window, she could see the decanter and the glasses set upon a tray in the corner and was relieved to see that it had not yet been touched. Mr. Morris swallowed hard, glanced towards his master, before nodding.
“I thank you,” Deborah murmured, turning back towards Lord Abernathy. “I shall speak with His Grace, Mr. Morris. By the time you return with the tea tray, I hope you shall find the room filled with light and the Duke a little restored.”
“I will pray you have success,” Mr. Morris muttered, pressing her arm for a moment. “I have not seen him this way for some time.”
She did not look at the butler but kept her gaze trained on the dark corner of the room, where she could see the outline of Lord Abernathy sitting.
“Thank you,” she replied, as Lord Abernathy continued to rage and roar at them both. Her stomach twisted with fear, her hands clammy as she began to walk towards the Duke, leaving Mr. Morris to quit the room behind her.
Now she was entirely alone with Lord Abernathy and Deborah felt herself tremble inside. Would he be willing to accept her help? Or would he continue to fire angry words at her, as though she were the reason for what had occurred with Lady Cavendish? Holding her breath, Deborah held up one hand and waited, with infinite patience, for Lord Abernathy’s tirade against her to come to a stop.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Lord Abernathy had no intention of desisting, for his words became even harsher and more abrasive, running over her skin and rubbing it raw. Her heart broke within her and, much to her distress, a single tear slipped from her eye.
As it fell onto her cheek, Lord Abernathy suddenly faded into silence. And yet, despite that, Deborah could not stop herself from weeping.
Chapter Eleven
Just how long Deborah wept for, she could not say. Once the tears had begun to flood down her cheeks, it was as though a dam had opened within her, for they simply would not stop. Her pain and agony grew so great that she could only draw in ragged breaths, her shoulders shaking and her body racked with sobs.
“Miss Harland.”
The Duke’s voice was tight and strained but Deborah did not look up.
“Miss Harland,” he said again, the anger no longer filling his words. “Miss Harland, I…..” He trailed off, leaving Deborah to her tears.
She cried for so many things. She cried for Lord Abernathy, for what he had endured and the darkness that had so easily welcomed him back into its fold. She cried for Lady Markham and for her solitude and her despair that had, once again, been flung back into her lap. And, she cried for herself, for the pain and the sorrow that tormented her ceaselessly. She wept for the depth of emotion that she had for Lord Abernathy, for the way that he had turned from her and treated her so harshly without so much as a thought. Her tears were for the deep affection – the love – she had for him that would forever go unreturned. They were constant, falling onto her cheeks like a spring rain until she felt as though she had emptied herself completely.
“Miss Harland – Deborah….”
At the sound of her name, she looked up to see Lord Abernathy staring at her with such a stricken expression on his face that, for a moment, she did not quite know how to respond.
“Deborah, I – I did not mean to….” His words were stilted and sounded forced. He thrust one hand through his hair and groaned aloud, pushing his head back until he was looking up at the ceiling. Deborah pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes, sniffing indelicately as she attempted to regain control of herself.
“I did not mean to distress you,” Lord Abernathy said, his voice tight as his gaze drifted away from her. “After what Lady Cavendish did, I find myself more than a little angry at her behavior.”
“And so you decide to rail at your dear sister, who has fretted and worried about you almost every moment since you first returned from the war?” Deborah asked, hoarsely. “Your anger has overtaken you. Did you even realize that I was knocked to the ground by your furious entrance into the house?” She looked at him steadily and, even with the cloudiness of his injured eye, she saw the guilt in his expression. Her heart felt as though it had been ripped from her chest and flung at her, hard.
“Forgive me,” Lord Abernathy whispered, brokenly, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and pushing his head into his hands, so that he did not have to look at her.
Deborah wiped her eyes again and shook her head. “You think that just because I come from the abbey, I am required, in some way, to forgive you at once, Lord Abernathy?”
He did not look up at her, the silence giving her his answer.
“It will not be immediately forthcoming,” she stated, a touch coldly. “You have quite broken Lady Markham. She is attempting to be restored by Mrs. Denton but your harsh words have injured her greatly.” She looked at him steadily, feeling her determination and a flash of anger beginning to burn with her. “You knock me to the ground and do not even consider whether or not I am injured.”
“I have asked for your forgiveness,” he muttered, not lifting his head.
“I will give it,” she answered, honestly, “but you must make reparations. Just because one young lady is foolish enough to simply look at the outward appearance does not mean that those who surround you do so also. We have not turned from you.”
Lord Abernathy’s head jerked up. “No, you have not,” he said, with something flickering in his eyes that she could not quite make out. “You, who has seen the worst of me.”
Something in his voice made her frown. She did not know quite what he meant but the look in his eye told her that he had come upon something significant.
“I need to be left alone,” he muttered, his expression suddenly growing dark. “Leave me, Miss Harland.”
She was to no longer be ‘Deborah’, then. That was too much of an intimacy for them both to share, it seemed.
“You cannot retreat back into the shadows, Lord Abernathy,” she said, quietly, refusing to allow him to do so. “You have been pulled from that once already, and I have no intention of trying to do so again.”
He looked at her steadily, his cheeks a little flushed. “I do not require your help, Miss Harland.”
His words were biting and cold, although Deborah did not know whether they meant the same as they had done the first time he had shouted them at her. Was it simply that he truly did wish to be left alone, so that he might consider his actions? Or was it that he wanted to melt back into his chair, allow the gloom to wrap around his shoulders and drag him slowly back into his depression?
“I will not permit these drapes to remain closed,” she said, tightly, refusing to let another tear fall despite the ache in her throat. “You shall not have everything as you wish, Lord Abernathy.” The confidence in her voice was not the truth of what she felt at that moment, jerking in surprise when Lord Abernathy’s voice filled the room.
“I think I stated quite clearly, Miss Harland, that I did not need your help.”
“And yet I give it unreservedly,” she stated, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder as she pulled another drape back from where it was closed. “You shall not lose yourself again, Lord Abernathy.”
He snorted in derision. “A monster lurks in the shadows, does it not?”
Deborah turned to him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “You are not a monster, Lord Abernathy.” She lifted her chin, fire burning within her heart, an indignance that he would refer to himself in such a way and that Lady Cavendish had treated him so poorly. “You may peer at your reflection in the looking glass, Your Grace, and you may see the scars, the redness, the injury that will never heal.” Seeing him flinch, Deborah did not hesitate but carried on regardless. “However, whether others choose to see only the outward appearance is entirely their own decision. There will be some who know your character, Lord Abernathy, and will treat you just as they have always done. Think of Lord Rakes, for example. He did not t
urn from you! He did not run away in fright! He is your friend and treated you as such, did he not?” She saw Lord Abernathy drop his head, realizing that what she was saying was making an impact upon him. “You may not be able to do anything to restore your eye or remove the scars that have made their home in your flesh, but you can determine your character, Lord Abernathy. If you continue in the darkness, then your character will turn towards it. If you fight against the misery and the pain, against the sorrow and the sense of injustice, then your character will become bright.” She shook her head, walking towards the door with such an ache in her heart that it felt as though it might rip right through her. “I know which gentleman I would prefer to call my friend. Good day, Lord Abernathy.”
She did not give him time to respond to her but opened the door and walked through it, almost colliding with Mr. Morris.
“Go,” she said, gesturing towards the door with a sudden sense of hopelessness. “I think he will be glad of refreshment now.”
Mr. Morris nodded, although he eyed her carefully. “Are you quite sure you are well, Miss Harland? That was something of an ordeal and you have –”
“I am quite all right, I assure you,” she replied, quickly. “just a little weary.” Her back pained her from where she had fallen but she did not let him know of her suffering. “I must go to Lady Markham now.”
“I have already sent a tea tray for you and her ladyship to the drawing room,” the butler replied, warmly. “Rest, Miss Harland. I shall stay by the master’s side for as long as he requires it.”
Deborah nodded, feeling her emotions swell like the cresting of a wave. She turned away before she burst into yet more tears, steeling herself and setting her chin as she walked towards the drawing room. Lady Markham needed her now. The time for her to rest would come later.
It was some hours later before Deborah was able to return to her rooms. She was utterly weary, her mind heavy from listening to Lady Markham’s distress whilst also considering all that Lord Abernathy had said to her. Her steps were heavy as she walked into her room, her heart sorrowful for what had occurred.
