Chapter 4
Alaric walked through the halls of the castle, unable to escape the fact that it felt emptier than it usually did. There was no good reason for such a feeling, but he understood well enough why it felt that way.
The death of his grandmother sat heavy on his shoulders.
It was odd that it affected him so much. He had not seen his grandmother in years, but that she was now gone from this world left a hole in his heart that he knew would be difficult to fill. As he walked the halls, that hole only seemed to grow larger and emptier inside him.
Not thinking about where he was going, Alaric took the long way through the castle, choosing to bypass the main foyer as if his subconscious demanded it.
The reason for that, he realized when he found himself descending the servants’ steps, was on account of his wife’s bust and his need to avoid it.
He pictured the carving of her face, and a stabbing sensation that felt suspiciously like guilt drove itself through his chest.
I miss my wife, and that is not a lie. But do I miss her enough? Why do I feel this way about my grandmother but not her?
It was a question he could not answer … or perhaps one that he refused to give himself a chance to answer.
He had indeed loved his wife, and nobody would deny such a thing.
And when she had died, he had mourned her, suffered from her loss as any husband ought to do.
But now he had moved on, he could not escape the feeling that it was wrong to have done so, and so quickly.
He shook those thoughts from his head as he exited the castle.
Thornwyck Hall sat on vast tracts of moorland; grass covered hills that rolled gently for as far as the eye could see. It stood tall and alone like an island surrounded by open seas. That was, of course, save for the lake …
The weather was typically gray, the storm still threatening to break without ever doing so. Alaric eyed the thick clouds as he strolled through the garden, his destination set for the lake that buffeted the estate; more specifically, the boathouse built on its shore.
Alaric stood several feet down from the weathered boathouse, eyeing the wooden structure with mixed feelings. Anger. Loneliness. And always, guilt.
He tore his eyes from it, reached into his pocket, and retrieved the letter that his grandmother had left him. That was the reason he had decided on this walk: to finally see what his grandmother had written to him, and that which she deemed so important to be for his eyes only.
Trembling fingers unfurled the letter …
If you are reading this letter, Alaric …
no need to say what has happened. Although I do ask that you do me the favor of not succumbing to complete and utter despair over my passing.
I lived a good life; my time has clearly arrived, and my only regrets are those that I know will soon be righted, even if I am not there to see them done.
I write this letter for many reasons.
Firstly, I ask that you look out for my companion, Miss Nessa Kavanagh.
While my request that she work as a housekeeper for you might appear random and strange, I promise that it is not without purpose.
She is a lovely young woman, kind, intelligent, and while she is yet to find her way, I know that her journey to it will be made under your guidance. Be good to her, Alaric; protect her.
My second reason is to help ease your guilt.
Oh yes, I know you are feeling it. My passing has undoubtedly returned memories of your dear wife’s death, some good, some bad, and many confusing.
Your marriage was a good one, not perfect, by no means a fairy tale, but you suited her for the purposes required, and she would not begrudge you for moving on.
Move on, Alaric. That is what I ask. No man is an island, and the sooner you come to accept this, the happier you will be.
He read the letter twice, able to hear his grandmother’s voice clearly as if she were the one reading it to him.
The letter was typical of his grandmother. She always seemed to delight in speaking in riddles, as if she saw things that few others did. And how she loved to pull the strings of fate, forever influencing decisions and choices made because she always knew best.
He read the first paragraph a third time … Regrets that will soon be righted? What does she mean by that?
Even from beyond the grave, her presence was felt. And if Alaric knew his grandmother as he thought, then there was more at play here. As to what that could possibly be, he had no clue.
Alaric sighed and pushed those thoughts from his head.
Next, he read the part concerning Miss Kavanagh. Again, there was a sense that his grandmother had inserted her into this home for more reasons than were readily apparent. To help her find her way? A journey that she expected Alaric to help her with? But how?
He shook his head and sighed … but then he smiled as he looked across the vast lake and its gray waters. His grandmother was much like the storm overhead. A force unto itself, and to try and fight it was fruitless.
Alaric’s thoughts stayed on Miss Kavanagh. He elected, for now, to ignore his grandmother’s cryptic words. Best that he pretended that she was brought here for the obvious reason: she had nowhere else to go.
He pictured Miss Kavanagh in his head. Her beauty was the first thing that came to mind, and that brought even more guilt, as if it were wrong to think about.
Next, he considered her as a person. She had acted shy when they first spoke, but that was not her true self.
Rather, it was a symptom of her situation, her loneliness specifically.
Even though Alaric was surrounded by friends and family, living in the home that he had known his whole life, he understood that loneliness a little too well, just as he understood what Miss Kavanagh must have been feeling.
Is that why she was brought here? Did my grandmother see some resemblance between us? And if so, what am I to do about it …
“I thought I would find you here.” The voice came from behind Alaric.
Alaric turned and nodded once as his cousin, Crispin, lumbered toward the water’s edge.
He was not as tall as Alaric, and certainly not as handsome.
His hair was blond with wavy curls, his eyes a deep blue, and his features were boyish rather than masculine.
He stood in contrast to Alaric, who was rugged in the way he wore his hair messy and let his beard grow out, but always sure to dress as befitted a man of his station.
Crispin, on the other hand, always had the look of wearing days-old clothing; not a care in the world for how he was perceived.
He did not live at Thornwyck Hall, but he was a permanent guest. He had been on close terms with Alaric’s wife before she passed, and her death had affected him greatly.
Once, he was lively and charming, always quick to make a joke. But since her death, he had withdrawn inside himself, a shadow of the man he used to be.
Alaric sighed and turned back to looking across the water. “I needed fresh air.”
“As did I.” Crispin stopped beside him. “This place, it feels … strange, of late. Claustrophobic.”
“I was going to say the opposite,” Alaric said. “It feels empty to me, as if it is missing something.”
His words seemed to strike a chord with Crispin, who grimaced as if they were taken personally. Crispin turned slightly, and his gaze fell on the boathouse. He stared at it for a moment, and Alaric did not have to guess where his mind had gone.
“I have been meaning to see it repaired,” Crispin said of the boathouse. “But every time I think to see it done …” His shoulders fell. “I find an excuse not to do it.”
“I know the feeling,” Alaric said. “Although, perhaps you should. There was a time not so long ago that you had to be dragged kicking and screaming from the lake, remember?”
Crispin exhaled sharply from his nose. “It brings me little joy, of late.”
“Is that not the point?” Alaric pressed on his dour cousin. “Joy is so hard to find in this world that when we have a chance, no matter how remote, should we not strive for it? Maybe if you were to do as you once used to, finding yourself back on the water, things might change?”
Crispin said nothing at first, as if he had not heard Alaric speak at all.
“She would hate to see it abandoned like this,” Crispin said. “That alone should be reason enough, I suppose.”
He spoke of Alaric’s wife.
While the boathouse had been a favorite of Crispin’s, Alaric’s wife had also taken an interest in it shortly before she died.
At one point, she had mused about being given sailing lessons by Crispin, but such things had never come to pass.
Alaric always assumed it was because Crispin denied her, not wishing to share his true love of sailing with another.
There was an irony in that, Alaric knew … perhaps if Crispin had taught her to sail, she would not have drowned. Perhaps she would have taken a boat out on the day she did, rather than going for a swim. At least that was how Alaric guessed she passed, because her body had never been found …
“Maybe I will,” Crispin continued as if to himself. “She would have liked to have known that I was … that some things had not changed.”
Alaric had no idea what to say to that.
His mind was awash with thoughts concerning his grandmother’s letter.
The cryptic nature of her words. Her request that he help Miss Kavanagh.
Most of all, he considered her final plea, the desire she held that Alaric move on from all this death that surrounded him so that he might finally be happy.
It felt wrong to want to be happy with all that had happened.
What was more, he had no idea where he might even start. To want a thing was easy, but to find it was another matter entirely. And as he looked across the gray waters, his cousin by his side, Alaric knew that such happiness was a long way off for him yet.
Likely, he would never find it at all …
***
Alaric found himself back inside the castle’s winding halls not long after.
He walked idly, nowhere to go, his mind still awash with thoughts of that letter. And because he was not paying attention, he ended up walking past the kitchens, which was when he heard voices coming from within …
“… admit it!” Morag, the cook, cried out jokingly. “It is the best tea you have ever had.”
“Mine is better.” That was Miss Kavanagh, and she laughed as she spoke. “But this is a close second.”
“Oh! You are just saying that to hurt me.”
“I had no idea you regarded my opinion so highly.”
“I ought not to. And it is the last time I offer to make you tea!”
The two women laughed together, and Alaric found himself smiling at the sound of it. Laughter was a rare sound of late, and it pleased him that such a thing was still possible.
What was more, it reminded him of his own wife. She used to be close with Morag too, and often he would find them in the kitchen together, gossiping about things he did not understand, and those which they refused to share.
Maybe happiness is possible? Certainly not the foreign concept I am so determined to pretend that it is …
The laughter died down, and Alaric decided to keep moving.
To do so, he was forced to walk right past the doorway. And with his head down, he failed to see that at that exact moment, a body swept from inside the kitchen, making right for where he walked.
“Oh!” a cry came out suddenly.
Alaric turned, his eyes widened, and before he could do or say anything, hot tea was spilled down his front, drenching him completely.
“Oh no!” It was Miss Kavanagh who had spilled the tea, and never had he seen someone look so afraid.