Chapter 23
Frances
Later that day, Frances waited in the entrance hall, where the painting now hung. It looked majestic and was the true focal point.
She smiled. She had sent a message to James telling him to check the gallery before he came down for dinner, which he intended to take with her. It was from that direction his footsteps came now.
“Frances, you hung the paintings. I am so glad. I could not stand the empty spots and—” He stopped and looked up. “What is this?”
“Another painting I had hung. I found it in the storage room when I was looking for the ones to hang back in the gallery, and I thought it would look wonderful here.”
“This used to be its place.”
“Really?” Her lips curved. “Well then, it is wonderful that it is back where it should be.”
“No,” James said, his voice suddenly hard. Cold as ice, sharp as steel. “It cannot hang there. I will not have it. This man…” He pointed at the painting. “He has no place in this house. I will not have him staring down at me from these walls. Frances, how could you? Without asking me first?”
“I did not ask you if I could hang the other paintings back in the gallery, and you were happy about them. How should I have known that you would be unhappy about this one?”
She had meant well. How could good intentions go so awry?
“How would you like it if I hung a portrait of your father, stepmother, and half-sister in your chamber so that you have to look at it every single day?”
She paused. She would not like that at all. But then again, she hadn’t known. She had had good intentions.
Why was he so angry?
“I understand you do not care for your father, but your brother is in the painting. I thought that you would be pleased to see a painting of your brother there.”
“I would not,” he said. “For it only reminds me of… Frances, you do not understand. But then again, how could you? I have never told you the truth.”
He paced back and forth, his fingers fidgeting. Agitated beyond measure.
“What is it, James? Why are you so angry? Please forgive me.”
He rounded on her. “It is not you I am upset with. I am upset with… with myself. With him.” He pointed at the painting. “Even with my brother.”
“Don’t you think it is about time that you told me what truly happened? I cannot understand if you refuse to tell me.”
He took a breath and then placed one hand on the small of her back. “Come with me,” he said. “Come to the parlor. I will tell you the truth.”
Frances followed him, her heart thundering as uncertainty gripped her. Her mouth went dry.
Had she done the wrong thing? Or would he finally tell her the whole truth?
And as he closed the parlor door, another thought came to her. What if she couldn’t handle whatever he was about to tell her?
“Frances,” James began. “I will tell you the truth of what really happened. I have not told anyone in a very long time. Not even Aunt Eugenia. Only Gideon knows. But I think you need to know so that you can understand me.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please go on. Tell me the truth.”
He stepped to the fireplace and stared into the flames. “My brother did not die because of the duel. Well, I suppose in a way he did, but not truly.”
He wetted his lips. “I know I mentioned my father once or twice in passing and you may have some idea that all was not well between us. You see, my father always considered me less than. I was the spare, nothing more. The unwanted second son, always in Marcus’s shadow.
I was not the heir. I was too much like my mother.
He did not care for her either,” he added.
“She died when I was but a boy. I think he blamed me for that, too.”
He took a deep breath, smelling the cedarwood emanating from the fireplace. It soothed him.
“The truth is,” he continued, “my father never loved me. He loved Marcus. He was his golden child. But I always knew this, and it did not bother me too much. Marcus and I were close.”
He turned around and went to sit on the chaise, and Frances quickly joined him.
“My brother was foolish for engaging in a duel because of his love for a woman who did not care for him. A matter of honor over a woman unworthy of such devotion. He made me his second that day. I came with him, even though I urged him against it. I even considered telling our father, who I knew would have put an end to it, but I couldn’t betray my brother in such a way.
So I went with him, and it all took place. He was shot in the shoulder.”
He closed his eyes, smelling gunpowder once more. That acrid scent that still haunted his dreams.
“It was dreadful. He fell, bleeding. Hollingsworth was in shock. I did not think he—I did not think he believed he could hit my brother. He and his second rushed away, and I carried Marcus back to the house. A physician was summoned, and he was patched up. We thought the worst was over, but how wrong we were. The bullet hit his shoulder, so it was not deadly, just inconvenient. My father was not home when it happened.”
Frances saw the worry in her eyes. She didn’t know what to expect. Who could?
“My father returned that evening, and upon hearing what had happened, he became incensed. Flew into a towering rage.”
“At the man who shot your brother?” she asked.
“One would think so, but no. His anger was directed at me because I allowed the duel to go ahead.”
“How old were you?”
He shrugged. “Nineteen. In his opinion, old enough to know better.”
“But how old was your brother?” Frances prodded.
“He was twenty-two. But do not forget, he was the heir. He was to be always kept safe and secure because he was the one to continue the line.”
James got up again and paced the room. For a moment, the sound of his footsteps was the only thing filling the silence between them.
He turned, running his hand along a bottle of whiskey that stood on the sideboard, then dropped it.
“It was in this very room. My father called me in here and rang a right peal over my head. More than that, he struck me, which was nothing new. He had done it before. I bore the marks of his displeasure often enough.”
He rubbed his jaw, where his father had hit him all those years ago, as though he could still feel the ghost of it.
“He used to hit you?”
“Often,” he muttered. “Sometimes he would whip me with a belt. Sometimes with a rope. But in any case, in that moment, I had had enough. I was not going to be blamed for things I did not do. My temper got the better of me. I was not going to be hit as though I were a child. So I struck him back. I can still feel the palm of my hand burning. We tussled, we fought. I fell to the ground in front of this fireplace, and he was choking me. His hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me. I was sure he was going to kill me. My own father.”
Frances gulped, her eyes watering as they widened in horror.
“I grabbed the fire poker, thinking if I could strike my father in the head, or even in the arm, I’d free myself and get away.
It was the only thing I could think to do at that moment.
So I reached for it and grabbed it. But Father wrestled it out of my hand and swung backward. No doubt to strike me.”
James took a deep breath.
“What Father didn’t know was that Marcus had rushed over to snatch the poker from him, but Father didn’t see him.
He was bent over my father, trying to pull him off of me, when the poker hit the side of his head.
Father had sat up to hit me, you see. He swung the poker back and instead hit Marcus in the head, and Marcus lost his balance.
He tumbled sideways and slammed his head directly into the fireplace.
His skull cracked open right there.” He pointed to the spot in front of the chaise.
Frances lifted her feet on instinct, as though the blood was still pooling on the floor.
“I cradled him, but he died in my arms. His last words were ‘Not your fault, James.’ But it was. It was my fault. Don’t you understand, Frances? He died because of me. I have blood on my hands,” James said hoarsely. “My brother’s blood. How can you look at me knowing that?”
“Because it was not your fault,” Frances said fiercely.
“Because you are not your father. You are nothing like him.” She looked him right in the eye.
“You did nothing wrong. Your father attacked you for no reason. You were defending yourself. Any man would have done the same. You did nothing wrong. And you cannot seriously blame yourself—”
“But I do,” he cut her off. “Don’t you understand?
My father was a horrible, violent man. I should’ve walked away when he summoned me.
I already knew what he was going to say.
I should’ve left. I shouldn’t have fought him.
If I hadn’t fought him, if I hadn’t reached for the poker, Marcus would still be alive. ”
“No.” Frances rose from her seat. “Walking away would have made no difference. He would have found another reason to attack you. It was not your fault. Your father was horrible. He did not care for you. He mistreated you the same way my father mistreated me, although he did not hit me. But there are other forms of abuse. Neglect, cruelty, coldness—these wounds cut just as deep. In any case, it was not your fault, just as it was not my fault.” She placed her hands on his cheeks. “You must stop blaming yourself.”
“But I do blame myself. Every time I hear a gunshot, I think of that wretched duel and of Marcus’s injury. I think of the way my father reacted to it all. I should’ve stopped the duel.”
“You are not responsible for everything. You have done nothing wrong. It was your brother’s idea to have a duel and appoint you as his second. It was your father’s responsibility for how he reacted to it.”
James shook his head. “Thank you for trying to comfort me, but the fact remains. I am responsible—”
“No,” Frances insisted.
She could not bear to see him in such anguish, could not stand by and do nothing. Before she knew it, she had risen on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his lips.
James did not know what to do. He had been so wrapped up in his feelings, in his guilt, that he hadn’t seen this coming. And yet, now that her lips were on his, he could not remain still.
He wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, his lips opening slightly to allow her tongue to explore his mouth. The two stood there, kissing, her breasts pressed against his chest.
This felt good. It felt warm. It felt right. A joining of souls, not merely lips. This was everything a marriage should be, everything he had dreamed of.
But then a wave of uncertainty washed over him.
This was wrong. He could not grow attached to her. He could not be with her. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything for her.
He placed his hands on her hips and pushed her away, although it cost him everything.
“Stay with me,” she whispered against his lips. “Please. Do not shut me out again.”
But he was already pulling away, already closing himself off. His walls going back up, brick by brick.
“I must be alone, Frances. I cannot… I will not drag you down into my darkness. I am beyond redemption, beyond saving.”
“You are not beyond anything,” she said. “You are a good man, James. A worthy man. I am with you. I understand.”
“You can never truly understand. There are things that you understand more than anyone else, yes, but this? This guilt that I carry, this burden that is mine to shoulder for the rest of my life? You cannot understand it, and I will not put it on you. Please, leave.”
She looked at him, hurt and confused, but she did not move.
“Leave,” he said again.
James knew that this was his chance to change the course of his life. To embrace what she was offering: understanding, love, and friendship. But that part of him, the part that still believed Marcus would still be alive were it not for him, could not allow him to.
And that part of him made him turn around and walk out of the room, leaving the woman he was growing to love behind, rejected once more.
And though his heart shattered as he walked away, he told himself it was for the best. It had to be.