One Autumn Knight (The Bridewell Sisters #4)

Prologue

Tristan woke with a start. He had been waking from nightmares quite often in the past six months. He knows that Nanny is only a room away. He could call out to her, but something in him hesitated to do so.

He wanted to be strong. Papa told him how important it is for a boy to be strong, so that he can grow up to be a great man. More than anything in the world, he wanted to please his papa. His father was all he had left.

And his baby sister, of course, but she was too little to understand what they’d lost. Rather than try to sleep again, Tristan climbed out of bed, picked up a candlestick next to his bedside, and struck a match to light the wick. Then he crept quietly out of his room.

Making his way down the hall quietly, he tiptoed, all but holding his breath, hoping to move silently enough that he woke no one.

He’d made this journey many times in the last six months.

Sometimes during the day when no one is about and Papa was out on his day’s business or locked in his study.

On those days, he waited until he’d done with his lessons and the house was quiet, and then he’d creep down the hall to the far end, and push open the door to his mother's room.

It had remained unchanged. Papa would not allow it to be altered, and he told the staff that no one was to enter Mama’s room except to keep it tidy. But he had not locked the door either. Tristan was grateful because he liked to visit the room.

The chamber still smelled like his mother, and he could remember her better as soon as he stepped inside.

He likes to imagine he could still see her sitting in her chair or perching on the edge the bed.

Or settled in front of her vanity. Yes, he could still see her there.

But she wasn’t truly there. He couldn’t truly see her, and if he spoke to her, she never answered.

Mama was not a ghost, though sometimes he wished she would come back as one.

He wished he could see her, the true her, just once more.

His memories now were more of a shadow. A shimmer, like when he’d accidentally looked at the sun and then looked away. He could still see the shape of her in his mind's eye.

Tonight, he pushed open the door and breathed in the fading scent of her perfume, then walked in a little farther.

The carpet felt good under his bare feet as he approached her vanity.

He dared to run his fingers over the bristles of her hairbrush, lifted the lid on a dish of hand lotion, and inhaled the scent of roses in the air.

Tristan smiled. Such a good smell, and when he closed his eyes, he could remember smelling that scent when she gave him a goodnight hug.

He heard a sound and froze, gently laying the lid back on the lotion dish.

Holding his breath, he strained to listen. What was that sound?

It almost sounded like someone had been hurt.

He heard a groaning and then a long moan through the wall. His Papa’s chamber was just next door. Tristan crept out of his mother's room, pulling the door closed gently so as not to make noise, and walked a little farther down the hall. He laid his ear against the panel of his father's door.

Papa was mumbling. Groaning. And then Tristan heard a sound he recognized all too well because he still cried himself to sleep many nights.

Papa was crying. He did not even know his father could cry. He had not cried at the funeral, and he never cried at the dinner table, as Tristan had once done. And when Tristan was bold enough to go and visit him in his study, he had never seen his father crying there either.

Nanny told him that his father is a stoic sort, but that his father had loved Mama. She told Tristan that a young gentleman was not supposed to cry in front of others or let others see one’s feelings.

For some reason, it was odd to know that his father was crying and that he did it privately, just like Tristan did secretly in his room. Hearing his father crying brought tears to Tristan’s eyes too.

He wanted to be with him, and he thought his father wouldn’t be cross if he saw him crying because he was his only son.

Of course, Papa would never cry in front of visitors or the staff, but maybe if Tristan were with him, he could put an arm around his shoulders the way that Nanny sometimes did with him, to comfort him.

Often, it didn’t help, because Nanny was not who he really wanted to hug.

But maybe Papa would be comforted if Tristan went to him and gave him a hug.

Swallowing back a little lump of fear, he took the few steps down to his father’s room, twisted the doorknob, and slipped inside.

At first, he couldn’t see his father. His bed was made.

The room was tidy. But then he saw him sitting on the floor in front of the window.

The window that looked out onto the garden that Mama used to tend.

When his father heard him, he snapped his head up, eyes wide with shock. He swiped his sleeve across his face.

“What are you doing, boy?”

“I couldn't sleep, Papa, and I heard noises.”

His father said nothing, just regarded him from where he sat in the shadows.

“I'm sorry, Papa. I wanted to help you.”

He sensed that his father was not happy to have him there and thought for certain he would be sent back to his room.

Or maybe his father would call for Nanny, and she would put him back to bed. She might read him a story.

But instead, to his surprise, his father flicked his hand, urging Tristan closer.

“Come and sit with me,” his father said. And so he did.

When he crouched down beside him, he noticed that his father's hands were shaking. Then he spotted one of the decanters that usually sat on a cart in the drawing room. Tonight, it sat next to his father.

Tristan’s heart froze when he saw something else next to his father. One of the dueling pistols that was kept in an enameled case in Papa’s study. He'd shown them to Tristan once, told him that he would inherit them one day, but that he hoped he never have cause to use them.

So what was it doing here with Papa? Was he afraid of someone or of something?

He thought maybe Papa saw a ghost and it frightened him.

Maybe Mama appeared to his father, even though she had not appeared to Tristan.

But he knew his mother wouldn't be a frightening specter.

She was never frightening, only loving, only kind.

“Can I help you, Papa?”

His father shook his head and let out a long, weary sigh.

“My son, I want you to listen, and listen well.”

His father’s words were slurred, but Tristan could understand.

“Someday, you will choose a wife and you must choose wisely. Somehow who is respectable and can manage a household well.” His father reached for the decanter and drank deeply of the amber liquid inside.

“Don't give your heart away, my boy. It's a dangerous business to give your heart away.” Papa’s voice broke and Tristan thought he’d said all he meant to, but then he went on.

“Because when you love someone dearly, and you lose them, you…lose yourself too.”

Tristan didn’t know what to say or what his father might expect him in reply. He wondered if perhaps he should remain silent. But finally, he whispered, “I love you and Emma, Papa.”

His father let out noise that sounded like he was pained and pressed a hand to his chest. “And I love you and your sister, my boy, but it is a different sort of love I speak of. In a dozen years, you will understand.”

Tristan didn’t quite understand, but he nodded nonetheless.

“There's the sort of love,” his father said on a ragged whisper, “that makes a man feel as if he’s drowning. It consumes him and yet it also fills him up too. It is like climbing to the highest peak, but climbing so high is a terrible risk…” His father turned to look at him, and his father’s eyes were glassy and filled with tears.

“Because you can fall. It can all come crashing down. I would not have you feel that sort of pain.” His father swiped a hand across his face and leaned a little closer.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

Tristan wasn’t sure if he did, but he nodded.

“It is agony. I do not know if I can…” His father shook his head. “It frightens me how much I miss her.”

This Tristan did understand. “I miss her too, Papa.”

“I know you do, my boy. And that is understandable. She was an excellent mother.” Under his breath, no more than a murmur, he added, “I know I must find you another.”

He tried to smile at Tristan, but it wasn’t a smile. More of a grimace, as if he was in terrible pain. Tristan wondered again how he could help him.

“Part of me has fallen away,” he muttered. “I'm not whole anymore and won't ever be again.” He reached out and ruffled Tristan’s hair. “You should go back to your room, my son. I do not wish you to see…”

Tristan got to his feet, wishing to follow his father’s instruction. He didn't completely understand all that his father had said, but he knew Papa was in enormous pain. It felt as if it was vibrating off of him, filling the room.

He missed his mama every day, but it was clear that papa felt it even more deeply.

“You’ll understand what I’m saying one day, and I hope you will remember it. Make a good choice, son, but protect yourself so that you might be happy.”

Tristan started to turn away, but then couldn’t resist asking, “Were you not happy, Papa?”

His father licked his lips and a tear slid down his cheek before he quickly swiped it away. “I was. Oh, I was.” He sniffed, then added, “But if you follow my advice, you can have a measure of happiness, yet have it without the pain. And without giving up a bit of your soul to it.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Promise me,” his father rasped out. “There’s much you must do, but you cannot do any of it if you are broken.”

“I understand.” He wasn’t sure if he did, not entirely, but his father was so sad that he would have promised him anything.

Suddenly, his father reached out his arms, and Tristan rushed into his embrace.

His father rarely ever hugged him, and Tristan was so grateful for it that a little tear slipped down his cheek. He swiped it away with the sleeve of his night shirt.

“All right, my boy,” his father said, his voice a bit stronger. He even got to his feet. “I shall walk you back to your room. But heed what I say, my son. I want all good things for you.”

“Yes, Papa.”