Chapter 28 #2
The room was dark, nearly pitch-black. The smell was stale, as if fresh air had not entered the room in decades.
Clothes lay strewn everywhere he looked.
Empty plates – and many with untouched food—sat on every chair and table in sight.
And finally, there was the body that lay tucked underneath the covers of the bed, a rattled breathing coming from it, followed by what almost sounded like weeping.
“Lord Delacourt…” Adrian stepped carefully into the room, toward the bed. “Are you… are you awake?”
“Sadly,” a voice croaked. “Unless this is a nightmare from which I cannot wake.”
“My name is –”
“I know who you are,” Lord Delacourt spoke over him, even as his voice remained low-pitched and hollow. “What I do not know is why you are here.”
Adrian reached the end of the bed and stopped, not daring to get any closer. Through the dark, he tried to find the man’s face, but if he was turned over, the blankets pulled to cover him as if he was scared of being seen.
“I…” Adrian hesitated, no longer sure of what he wanted to say.
He had thought a great deal about this moment, but he had not considered for a second the state that Lord Delacourt would be in. And while Adrian should not have cared, as the man meant nothing to him, he found it hard to detach his feelings as he needed to do.
His plan was to ask Lord Delacourt about the affair his wife was involved in, hoping that the man would reveal who the father was so that Adrian could find him.
No need to tell him about Harriet, as Rupert was right about the consequences of such a revelation.
All Adrian needed was a name… or, barring that, information on where he might start to look.
To ask such a thing now felt cruel. To add to the man’s misery and pain was something Adrian could not do. Once, he might not have cared at all, but Adrian had changed much since meeting Ophelia. Even if he hated to admit such a thing.
“I am here in regards to a maid who once worked for your home,” Adrian started, deciding on a different course of action.
“A maid?” Lord Delacourt said softly.
“Her name was Ophelia,” Adrian said, staying at the bed’s end. “She worked here for three years, or so she claimed.”
“You know Ophelia…” Lord Delacourt shifted.
“She came to my home last month,” Adrian answered. “She has been…” He hesitated but then decided on his next course. “She has been working for me, and while I did not intend to hire her, she cited you as a reference.”
“She did?”
“I meant to check earlier on the truth of it, but then I heard of the death of your dear wife and thought to wait. I am sorry, by the way, to hear of such things. I cannot imagine how you must be feeling.”
Lord Delacourt said nothing at first. His breathing was soft, but through it, Adrian heard the distinct sound of sniffing as if the man was holding back tears.
“You have nothing to fear, Your Grace,” he spoke finally. “Ophelia did indeed work here for three years, and she was a vital part of the household. Whatever she told you, I am sure it is the truth. You are lucky to have her.”
A smile tugged at Adrian’s lips and his stomach twisted with regret. “I know I am…”
“Strange,” Lord Delacourt said next. “That a duke would seek such information. Why not send someone in your stead?”
“I…” Adrian hesitated again, no idea what to say.
His mind turned for an excuse, something that could be believed.
“I worried that if you learned of her and where she has been, that you might demand her return. If that was the case, I came to ask that you see it in yourself to release her from your service. She has been good to me – my estate, I mean. I would hate to lose her.”
A soft chuckle. “My wife always liked her.”
“As she liked your wife,” Adrian said quickly, sensing an opening. “She spoke often of her, in fact. And when she heard of her passing, she was bereaved. She thought to return here and mourn her, but she told me herself that such a thing would be too hard to bear.”
“I know a thing or two about that,” Lord Delacourt said. “I do apologize for the state you have found me in –”
“Not at all.”
“It is just…” He sniffed again. “What has Ophelia told you of my wife, Your Grace? Surely, she has spoken often of her time here?”
Again, a chance presented itself. All Adrian needed to do was tell him that he knew of the affair that she was said to have had, to lead the man down that path so that he might open up in his sorrow. No doubt, he needed such a thing.
And yet… Adrian just could not bring himself to do so.
It was strange to empathize with Lord Delacourt as strongly as Adrian was at that moment.
While he had not lost someone to death, he knew what it was like to have let a person whom he cared deeply for go.
Since his argument with Ophelia last evening, Adrian had fallen into depths of despair so painful, so torrential, that to speak it out loud would surely have broken him so that he might never recover.
And while Adrian told himself time and time again that he was doing the right thing, his biggest fear was that if he thought about it for too long, if he asked anyone for their advice, they would change his mind and make him see a different type of truth.
Better to live in ignorance than live with self-inflicted suffering.
“She said that you loved your wife,” Adrian found himself saying.
“She said that your marriage was a happy one. Not perfect, although few marriages are, she never doubted that it was one worth fighting for. She said that…” Adrian’s throat tightened.
“She said that fighting for the one you love is what makes a marriage like yours one to envy.”
“I did love her,” Lord Delacourt agreed, sniffing through his pain.
“And I know that she loved me. To some, that might have seemed absurd…” He laughed bitterly.
“She was so young, so beautiful. Every day I counted my blessings, unable to believe my luck that she was my wife. Our marriage was not perfect, but Ophelia was right. It was worth fighting for, and I fought for it right until my wife took her final breath.”
“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Lord Delacourt,” Adrian said, taking a step back. “My presence here, it… I am sorry.”
“No,” Lord Delacourt said firmly. “I am glad that you came. They say a person dies twice, you know. Once, when they draw their final breath, the second when their name is spoken for the last time. That my wife’s memory might live on that little bit longer…
” He sniffed again, and while Adrian could not say for sure, he was certain the man smiled through his misery.
“It has been nice to be reminded that she was well loved and will not be forgotten.”
Adrian could not leave that room fast enough.
He rushed down the halls and stumbled into the foyer as his conscience attacked him. He wanted to forget about Ophelia… he was desperate to leave her behind. But was that right? Or was their love something worth fighting for, regardless of how hard it might be…
“There you are!” Rupert strolled into the foyer. “How goes Lord Delacourt?”
Adrian winced. “As well as you might expect.”
“Did he say anything?”
Adrian looked up the stairs, remembering his conversation briefly. He felt the man’s pain in his chest, and he winced again. “Nothing revealing. Nothing we might use.”
“Drats,” Rupert said. “I did a little digging among the staff while you were upstairs, and sad to say, my efforts produced few revelations. There was no doubt that Lady Delacourt was having an affair, but none seemed to know who with, just as they had no idea how to find out.”
“Someone must know,” Adrian sighed.
“Perhaps it is for the best?” Rupert offered. “What if, and do not raise the alarm. But what if Ophelia were to keep the child as her own? She does love her. Would it be such a bad thing?”
Adrian shook his head. “The baby needs to be with her father.”
“Or someone close to that…” Rupert looked at Adrian knowingly.
Adrian scowled and looked away. The thought had crossed his mind, of course.
Those few weeks that he and Ophelia had cared for Harriet, treating her as their own, had been wonderful and damn near perfect.
Adrian had never desired to be a father himself, but there were times when…
no, that is not an option. It cannot be one.
“Let us leave this place,” Adrian said as he strode across the foyer. “Let us forget that we were here.”
“The storm…” Rupert winced.
Adrian scoffed. “Better to be caught in the storm than stuck here.”
To that, Rupert laughed. “Truer words have never been spoken. And if I ever needed a reminder of why I have chosen bachelorhood, I only need to think of this visit.”
Adrian had no response to that.
Once, perhaps, he might have agreed. The pain that Lord Delacourt was in was surely an argument against love?
But then he thought of when the man had spoken of his wife, the warmth in his voice, the belief that a smile was found on his lips.
Was the pain felt now worth that brief stint of happiness?
Was a moment of joy worth a life of torment?
To that, Adrian had no answer, even if he suspected that he knew it…