Chapter 13
Days passed in a blur as Chris convalesced, the weight of the past five years and all that he’d missed in Kent pressing on him like a vise.
His father frequented his bedchamber, offering words of encouragement and affection.
Each night, Collins, a stickler for abiding by schedules, appeared periodically with a new valet named Hardy, relaying that Chris’s presence was hoped for downstairs.
His heart seized, and he clutched his chest. It was too much too soon—humanity, normalcy, assurances of the mundane.
Danger and deprivation were no longer a threat.
Lying there in peace and quiet, far from being burdened by abuse and pain, he felt strangled by a false sense of security and control, that were as foreign to him as the reasons why the French had executed their king and queen.
The pull of war, death, and depravity wore on him, snatching patches of his consciousness and preventing him from sleeping well, if at all.
Peace, it appeared, was as elusive as a successful escape from the Basque Roads, Salamanca, Madrid or Gravelines.
He had no control over his Fate, except a divine will that kept him sane, a higher power which guided him, come what may, charging him with restless energy and good sense.
He was home, safe, secure. Leaving now was a torment he would not survive.
Damned if that didn’t sink in like an anchor hurled in shallow water.
Tired of staring at the bed canopy, he shrugged off the counterpane and eased out of bed, favoring his side, ever mindful that he had nearly died this time.
The pain and regret he experienced overwhelmed.
The impact of being home with the ones he loved dug deep into his heart, burrowing like an unsurprising mole.
But what of the men they’d left behind? Most, physically unable to travel, would likely soon die from scarcity, forced marches, and limited space filled with waste and vermin.
How did a man come to terms with failing to save his fellows?
From the beginning, he and Barrett could have been favored with individual housing, a courtesy given to officers.
Nevertheless, the French had ordered Barrett to care for the weak, an occupation that absorbed the surgeon’s days and nights with little reward.
He, due to several escape attempts and the devastating reality that he’d gotten men killed trying to break out, had lost any trust that the French might have bestowed on him at their various strongholds.
Or at any place they’d been forced to camp, for that matter.
Had his eagerness to make it back to Kent cost unnecessary lives?
He sauntered to the window, the curtains having been pulled for him hours ago with the hope that he would rise and join the others to break his fast. He glanced at the untouched food placed on a tray beside the bed, his small stomach having been deprived for so long that he was unable to eat.
Emma had redressed his wound, giving him Barrett’s reassuring diagnosis. His fever was down and infection hadn’t set in due to her vigilant care. Nothing prevented him from rejoining the land of the living, especially the requests of his father, who’d waited long enough for his return.
But how did one put the past behind? Was it possible to do so without losing one’s mind? He’d seen the way Emma looked at him—compassion laced with alarm.
Did he deserve the peace and love she offered when his fellows were denied the same? Where was the fairness, the justice? He paced and paced, half-dressed, fisting his hands, mulling over the right and wrong of it with no answers in sight.
This was a new version of hell. His reward for staying alive, for fighting for freedom to his last breath.
He stared out the window, recalling Emma’s reassuring words.
“I love you.”
“We will endure this together.”
Love wasn’t enough, though, was it? Sometimes things happened that forced a tack to larboard. He was broken, disfigured, haunted, and burdened by things that could not be unseen. And she deserved better.
His chest clenched with a force he’d come to recognize would never depart as he regarded several cloaked women outdoors on the lawn, strolling and carrying baskets of greenery, their arms heavily laden.
It must be Christmas Eve, and that probability made him wonder if Emma was among the group collecting the dressings for the halls.
He searched what little he could see of each face hidden by bonnets, fabric, and ribbon, unable to discern identities. But why the devil would Emma be dressing Milne Manor? Shouldn’t she be decorating Claverfield?
Ah! He fingered his beard. I’ve been gone so long, and I’ve become so jaded and wary, I’ve forgotten. It doesn’t matter where you are. There is always time to celebrate Christmas.
How foreign the event he was named after felt, when once he’d enjoyed every detail down to the yule log and . . . Figgy Pudding.
Hardly remembering the taste of the treat, he turned away from the window in frustration and examined his bed chamber for the thousandth time.
The tapestried walls, rich in color, were almost too frivolous for his taste.
The overstuffed armchairs situated by the fireplace bade him to recall mornings when he’d awoken nursing an acute bout of liquor poisoning.
The washstand beckoned him to rid himself of the filth and stench that had become commonplace to him.
And the four-poster bed, with its privacy curtains, lured him to forget it all and shut out the world—and reason and responsibility.
Restless, he shoved his arms into the sleeves of his banyan and made his way to the door.
Needing air, he gripped the latch, turned it, and stepped into the corridor, pausing to clutch his side as another stitch slowly ebbed and flowed.
The bleeding had stopped thanks to his being immobile for so long, but his body resisted each movement.
He was accustomed to pain. Discomfort reminded him he was alive, that every sacrifice he’d made had been worth the privilege of celebrating another Christmas in Kent.
His father and Emma had waited seven years for him to do that. Was it right, however, to ask Emma to throw away the rest of her life on a man who didn’t feel like he deserved to live?
Wary and feeling unworthy, Chris took the stairs slowly, imagining how Barrett might see his childhood home.
To be honest, he felt as much a stranger as his friend must. The lofty staircase lined with the honorable and loyal faces of his relations was grandiose and insignificant, the marquee marble floor below a chess board waiting for him to make his next move.
Dared he approach the queen? Or had he already been checkmated?
He roamed the halls aimlessly, familiarizing himself with the architecture, the wood and craftsmanship, and the corridors arrowing past the green parlor where he’d first seen Emma to the East wing and the one room he’d always cherished above all others—the red parlor.
He fastened his hand on the latch, hesitant to see what had become of his favorite sanctuary.
Standing before it felt foreign yet familiar.
He gave the handle a turn, easing the door open, and was immediately catapulted back to Gravelines and the endless times he’d imagined doing this very thing with the greatest of expectancy.
Lost to painful memories associated with his captivity, he braced against the tremor threatening to take hold of his body.
Was this real? Or was he dreaming again, teased with that which he could not have, forced to endure another one of Morpheus’s tricks?
He hadn’t quite worked out how to tell the difference. His good fortune seemed too good to be true.
Inhaling deeply, he stepped into the room, taken aback by its surreal beauty, and pulled forward by an unseen hand.
An intriguing euphoria swept over him as if trying to bury the doubt, fear and regret loitering inside him.
The battle was instantaneous, so fierce, so profound, that he began to forget Milne Manor was full of family and servants.
Anyone of whom could be lurking nearby and watching, gauging if he’d returned sane or had taken on a demonic persona.
God only knew.
The red parlor. At last. Painted as such to emphasize the hunting landscapes and military accoutrements his forebears had collected to display to great advantage.
Gilded frames and brass stood out against the walls, sparkling in the light illuminated from wall sconces and candelabras.
This room had eased his woes in the past. Would it help heal the scars he dared allow no one to see, the beast that he’d become to stay alive?
“My son? Are you unwell?”
He searched the room for the owner of that voice and found his father sitting in the shadows in the corner. Immediately tense, he chastised himself for not being more aware of his surroundings.
As his father attempted to rise, struggling with the effort, Chris said, “I am well.” Indeed, he was at present, though one moment to the next brought its own chaos. He was home. Free. He had all he’d ever hoped for, except for the losses too costly to count. “Father, do not exert yourself.”
Anxiety filled him. Time and heartbreak had decimated his sire, but the viscount’s face visibly relaxed as he sat back in his chair and stretched his hands over the overstuffed arms. “I would have done and will do anything for you, my son.”