Chapter Four
Marrying Lady Eleanor had been the worst decision of his life. What had Darius been thinking to bring a new wife into his home when he couldn’t be there?
He paced the confines of the converted bathhouse in the northern wood of his estate, far removed from the children he loved and the staff he employed. He’d hoped his black mood would stay away a little longer, but it had come swiftly and unexpectedly. What must she think of him?
It didn’t matter what she thought. They were married for life, even if one day he was thrown into Bedlam, where he belonged. She would take care of his children and, eventually, Peter would get word that he’d died, probably by his own hand, like his uncle.
Dropping onto the settee near the fire, he untied his cravat and threw it onto the floor.
He didn’t want to die in Bedlam. He wanted to die at Hawthorne Park.
How he would die was still a debate in his own mind.
There were plenty of ways to kill oneself.
His uncle had chosen drowning. Darius shivered at the thought.
Poison, laudanum, or even a pistol were much better options.
He just had to be smarter than his uncle.
He sat up to pull his boots off. They felt stifling, like his responsibilities.
He cupped the back of his head in his hands as he leaned over his knees.
He was supposed to take over his dukedom and all the responsibilities that entailed when his father passed away. But that would never come to pass.
He just had to hold on long enough for his parents to pass first. That and seeing his children settled were what kept him holding on. But he didn’t know if he was strong enough. Dinah was supposed to have taken over for him, but she’d gone and died on him.
He pulled on his neck, beyond irritated. Everything he tried to do failed. What if his new wife discovered where he was and why?
He lifted his head. “Hell and damnation.” He should have consummated the marriage on their wedding night.
She was too clever and too curious not to become suspicious.
Once she found out, she’d request an annulment, and then everything he’d been fighting for and fighting against would have been for naught.
Frustrated, he rose, running his hand through his hair as every worst possible future filled his mind. He returned to pacing, his stocking feet making little sound as he moved from one end of the building to the other, each step taking him deeper and deeper into his despair.
Images of being bound and brought to Bedlam filled his head, followed by his children crying, his parents arguing with some unknown adversary, and the new Lady Ferncroft pointing forward, demanding he be taken away.
In his mind, he didn’t resist, knowing he should have been gone years ago.
He was a coward, hiding away. He was useless to his family and duties.
He didn’t deserve to be content, despite it being his fervent wish.
Why couldn’t he be content? He didn’t ask for happiness, just contentment. Was that so large a request that he must be plagued by—
The side door of the building opened, and he spun around, ready to fight.
“Saw the light in here. Back at it again, are you?”
“Archer.” He scowled. “Go away.”
The gray-haired gamekeeper closed the door before shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Not sure what I would think if you didn’t greet me the same way every time.”
“Damn it, old man.”
“A drink? That’s very kind of you.” Archer moved to the sideboard and poured himself a scotch. He raised the glass. “Felicitations on your recent nuptials.”
Darius snorted. “There’s nothing to celebrate. You should have stopped me. Talked some sense into me.”
Thomas Archer took a seat in the wingback chair by the fireplace. “Now, why would I do that? You have a second chance at happiness.” He saluted with the glass. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”
The words infuriated Darius, and he swung his arm, knocking a candlestick from its holder on the wall. The force was so strong, the flame went out before it hit the floor—not that it mattered. “If I deserved damned happiness, I wouldn’t be hiding out here right now, you fool.”
“Actually, it’s because you hide out here that you deserve happiness. You’re not like your uncle was. You come out here to protect others. He came here to hurt them.”
Darius ignored his glint of curiosity. “Maybe no one deserves to be happy.” He found the thought comforting.
Archer took a sip as if contemplating his words. “That’s an interesting theory. Perhaps we should dissect it.”
Darius shouldn’t give in, but the temptation was too much. Contemplating the idea that no one deserved to be happy was far too enticing. “Yes, let’s.”
Archer raised his gray brows before throwing back the rest of his drink. “Then I need more.” He rose and poured himself another. When he had returned to his seat and made himself comfortable, he gestured with his glass. “Go ahead. Why is it that no one deserves to be happy?”
Darius moved closer and set his hand upon the fireplace mantel, the warmth of the fire heating his body even if it couldn’t reach his heart. “Adam and Eve.”
Archer waved his comment aside. “Surely you can do better than religion and original sin. That’s a belief. You can’t argue a belief. What else?”
“Man is imperfect, and happiness demands perfection.”
This time Archer spat out some whisky as he laughed, his weathered face crinkling like well-worn leather. “What does perfection have to do with happiness?”
Confused, Darius frowned. “Everything. If one conducts themselves perfectly then everything a man touches would be correct and therefore bring him happiness.”
“So, you’re saying that if your accounts all add up perfectly, that brings you happiness?”
His accounts always added up exactly as they should, but that wasn’t happiness. “No, that brings satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction. So that is not happiness? I must say, I find it so when tupping the missus.”
He waved off the man’s comment. “That’s just physical release. It is not happiness.”
Archer took another sip of whisky then contemplated his glass before speaking. “For you, it’s physical release. For those who know what it is to love a woman and be loved in return, it is happiness. And you, my young lord, have no idea what that’s like.”
“Exactly. Because despite my best efforts, I chose wrong in my wife. If I had chosen correctly, life would have been perfect and I would have been happy, ergo, perfection equals happiness. Man is not perfect, and is therefore doomed to be unhappy.” Feeling an odd sense of triumph in his dark reasoning, Darius pushed away from the fireplace and walked to the sideboard.
He was halfway through his pour when his gamekeeper spoke.
“You have it all backward, Ferncroft.”
He turned at the use of his title. “Do I? I think not.”
Archer rose before walking over and setting his empty glass on the sideboard.
“It is the imperfections that make us unique. They are what make us loveable, and it is love that brings true happiness. Think upon that.” He poured himself yet another glass and lifted it up in salute.
“It’s damned cold out there tonight.” He moved toward the fireplace as if just talking about the cold gave him a chill.
Darius poured a brandy. “Then maybe I should go for a walk. This room feels like a cave.”
Archer turned at that. “You could always lock yourself in your rooms at the house.”
Darius shivered at the thought. “That’s worse, being locked in a space within a space. Here I can leave at night. Unless your son is about.”
Archer shook his head. “No. I don’t let anyone walk the north wood as a precaution, since I never know when you’ll be here.”
“Yes, and here I am. The monster in his cave needing to be released.” Darius swirled his brandy in the glass, the reddish-brown liquor reminding him of a painting of hell by Hieronymus Bosch. He felt like one of the creatures in the painting.
“Then go. This is your estate. I just suggest you stay away from the lake. Young Peter is not ready to lose another parent.”
At the mention of his son, some of the dark anger left him and he took a sip of his brandy before returning to the settee. “I would not do that to him.”
“And glad I am to hear that. I know you don’t believe it right now, but you’re a good man, Ferncroft…for a swell.”
Darius snorted, seeing no reason to reply to such idiocy.
Archer moved away from the fire and set his half-empty glass on the sideboard. “I’d best get back to my rounds or my lord will take issue with my work.”
“Bugger it, Archer.”
The gamekeeper ambled to the side door and shrugged into his coat. “Have as good as a night as you’re able.”
And with that, the man left to complete his travels around the estate, watching for poachers until the wee hours of dawn.
“Not perfect? If my imperfections made me loveable, I’d be surrounded by love.
” Darius snorted then held his glass high as he toasted to the closed door.
“Have a safe night, my friend, and I will endeavor to do the same.” He took a gulp of the brandy, reveling in the strong burn as it made its way down his throat and into his stomach.
He held the glass in both hands. Now that he was alone once more, as he should be, he could continue down the dark path of his thoughts, but once again Archer had piqued his interest when he least wished to be interested in anything.
Though the old man had missed the mark on what brought happiness, he had made some interesting points that could be investigated.
Determined to prove his gamekeeper wrong, Darius searched for reasonable, logical reasons for happiness.
Wealth, family, and success brought comfort.
Because he was a marquess, he had no need to prowl the woods in search of poachers all night.
He took another sip of brandy. Yet here he was, hiding from his children and staff to avoid saying anything that would hurt them, keeping them in the dark, as it were, so as not to visit his pain and melancholy upon them.
While Archer would return home to his wife in the cottage he was provided and enjoy her with laughter and body and be happy.
Swirling the liquid in his glass, Darius stared at it as if it could answer him before becoming frustrated with his inability to come to a satisfying conclusion.
Downing the rest, he waited for the harsh burn before throwing the glass into the fireplace.
Rising, he looked about, feeling trapped again.
He strode to the door, opened it, and walked outside into the trees of his own forest. He’d barely gone a few yards before the cold frost of the night seeped into his stockings, chilling his feet, but still he walked off the path and into the dense wood.
The moon shone down between the leafless trees, making their shadows look like crooked arms reaching toward it.
He halted and looked up through the bare branches that grabbed for the shining partial orb. It had been full days ago. He only knew because he’d woken to its light, unable to sleep. Luna. The mother of the lunatics. He should feel a kinship with her, but he didn’t.
A chill ran through him. It was too damn cold.
“Who, who.” An owl sounded nearby.
He spun to search it out. “It’s me.”
The bird was eerily silent.
Determined to have one success this night, he let his gaze roam over every branch within his view.
Not seeing the elusive bird, he moved a couple of yards and searched more trees.
Finally, he found it, sitting on a branch as if the weather was of no import.
Its head swiveled away from him before it turned its fathomless gaze back upon him.
“I’m far too big to be your prey and far too limited to be a threat. I am no more than a curiosity. You do not realize that you live here in this wood by my munificence. I envy you, envy your lack of self-awareness.”
The owl blinked before turning its head to the side. Within seconds it took flight, swooping between the branches, soaring beyond sight.
“I envy you your flight, too.” Darius shivered, the cold making itself known from his feet to his fingers. As he strode back through the wood to the small clearing where his hideaway sat, he crossed another way to die off his mental list. Dying from exposure would be a horrific way to go.
He quickly opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it against the cold.
Walking directly to the fireplace, he stopped before it.
Pulling his cold shirt from his body, he threw it on the chair previously vacated by Archer then stripped off his pantaloons before sitting on his clothes and removing his wet stockings.
Naked, he rose and stood before the warmth of the fire, but it wasn’t enough.
He stepped to the simple bed and wrapped the large quilt around him, intending to return to the fire.
Sleep would be welcome, a relief from his dark thoughts for a short while.
He looked to the clock. It was not yet midnight.
Groaning, he sat on the bed. At least eight more hours of darkness to close in on him, swallow him up, and prove his worthlessness.
Archer knew not what was in his heart. Half of it must surely be dead already, putrefied by his disappointing past and hopeless future.
He didn’t deserve to live. What man resented his dead wife for pushing him away after discovering his secret?
He even resented that she had died before him.
It wasn’t fair. She was meant to live, to ensure his son lived.
Now he had to stay alive. Why could nothing go as he’d planned?
He lay down, still wrapped in the quilt like a caterpillar in a cocoon. If only he could awake and rise like a butterfly, or even as a moth, attracted to the light only to burn in the flames of its fire.
Either was acceptable to him.