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Chapter XLVIII - A Change in Charles

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Charles Everleigh did not know what to think upon seeing his crying wife and daughter—not to mention a strange Frenchman—entering the home late one night. But the man was soon made out to be Monsieur Henri Clermont—his daughter's dressmaker and his sister's business partner. They shook hands and sat down at the dinner table while Mrs. Everleigh ushered her hysterical daughter to her white linen bed.

Monsieur Clermont explained that his dear old friend, Sir Claudius of Beochaoineadh Castle, had passed on. He was an old, decrepit man, in poor health. At the request of Sir Claudius, there would be no funeral service or burial. He had wandered off into the woods somewhere and died alone.

Charles immediately became distressed. His face went as white as the glittering rays reflecting in the sea in the morning.

Isolde stepped in, her forefinger and thumb pinching the skin in-between her eyes, her head hung low. Athena's sobs and wails could be heard from the bedroom. There were tears in Isolde's eyes which Charles had never before seen.

The man stood, his hand reaching up to his neck. He asked if she knew what was going on, and the woman replied in the affirmative. She had known all along. She knew about Sir Claudius. About Athena working for him.

He sat back down, staring at the table. His wife sat down too, next to Monsieur Clermont. She folded her arms, and her face was tired and gaunt. She must have been too distraught to even fault her husband for his shortcomings.

Monsieur Clermont sensed the tension between the man and his wife, and so he changed the subject by asking if he could remain for the night. Charles nodded.

He asked her how long she had known, and she said for well over a year or two. But then, he asked something he should not have: If his wife had known he never actually went to work in town, and instead all of the gold came from Sir Claudius.

The monstrous woman slammed her hands on the table, pushing herself up and scooting the chair back. Monsieur Clermont scooted away from her, putting his hand over his face. She pointed her finger at her husband, and her face turned a blistering red. Spitting words fired out of her mouth—curses in her native language he couldn't understand, and then some in English he could. Monsieur Clermont gasped at the last few words.

Charles ducked his head. Isolde asked, with a bite in her words, if the new job in Dublin was real or fake. He replied that it was real—which was the truth. He finally felt at home in Dublin, where the cultured society was blossoming. He couldn't handle the lines of work in the small town, and instead went to the pubs each day. So when he had enough gold for a suit and new horses and carriages to transport him to Dublin, the man took that opportunity.

Isolde clawed the table, her nails sinking into the silvery table cloths with ornate designs. Monsieur Clermont lurched at that then quickly asked for a room. Charles stood, avoiding his wife, and pulled the Frenchman out of the dining room, assuring him they had the loveliest little guest room.

The woman watched as they walked out. She turned around, banged her fist on the table, and leaned over it.

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Monsieur Clermont departed the next morning for Dublin. Athena promised to visit him soon, and so did Isolde, who desperately needed a new wardrobe.

Charles avoided his wife by spending most of the day with his daughter, who was in a deep period of mourning for her old friend. His little girl, who—somehow… he didn't quite know how—was turning into a woman before his eyes. The grief stole the girlish gleam out of her eyes and turned her into a woman.

Athena asked to visit Beochaoineadh Castle a week after Monsieur Clermont left, but she did not want to go alone. Hoping to get away from his wife for a little while longer, the man agreed to go with his daughter.

They walked along the path they had traveled together a year or so before when he had gone to the pub in the small town instead of selling wares on the street. The pair turned down the pebbled driveway to the castle, and for the first time, Charles got to take in the grandness of the place. It was a medium-sized, modest, yet still beautifully mysterious castle—fit for a gentleman's or count's status. And it was ancient, with vines creeping up around the sides. Obviously, Sir Claudius came from old money.

Athena pulled the door open and Charles was whisked away into another world, a land of total darkness and freezing temperatures. Like the arctic in its eternal winter. His daughter pulled him along through the land as he shivered, his arms wrapped around himself. She took him down a flight of stairs and down hallways until they reached what seemed to be the castle dungeons. Athena had been mostly straight-faced up until that point when her features began to sour and twist into a horrid expression of grief. But she pushed onward, opening the dungeon door and entering.

She seemed to be trudging through a mud swamp of pain while climbing down the final steps into the dungeon.

Charles asked why she had taken him here, and she responded that she had come to see his life's work. Claudius was a master of sculpting out of stone, and on his deathbed, he finished his magnum opus: a life-size dragon.

Marveling at the great feat in front of him, Charles stepped forward, past Athena. He rubbed his hands all against the great stone dragon, feeling its realistic grooves and curves, its stony scales. The tail wrapped around the body, and the beast was in a position of slumber—its eyes closed peacefully.

He asked his daughter if she could do anything quite like this, and Athena responded in the negative—arguing that she had never got far enough in her studies to even sculpt one small piece. Rather, she was more of a maid and a friend than an apprentice. Charles nodded at this information.

After gazing over the magnificent figure, Charles posed a question to his daughter: would Claudius have wanted his great work sold? Surely, he would have been fine with giving more money to support the family of his friend.

But then, just when he had already begun to salivate at the thought of the fortune the sculpture would buy him, soft sounds came from the other end of the room. He looked over and found his daughter to be facing down at the floor, her shoulders falling and rising. She made quiet weeping sounds, with her hands covering her face.

Suddenly, Charles realized his mistake and he jogged over to his daughter. He put an arm around her, consoling.

Athena admitted that she wanted to keep the sculpture, because of how much it meant to her and Sir Claudius—and how she also wanted to use the remainder of the gold to refurbish the castle and its grounds. Charles winced and bit his tongue at the thought of all that good gold going to waste but… this was his prized jewel's wish. He had already exploited her so much; at the very least, the rest of the gold could be for her own desires.

The man's wince transformed into a small smile; he closed his eyes, embraced his daughter, and kissed her upon the forehead.

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Several months went by—one day bleeding into the next like a bright red sunrise that climbs up into the sky, transforms into yellow and then blue.

Charles eventually spoke with his wife and apologized to her for keeping secrets and lying. She remained quiet and calm throughout his apology, but eventually talked, denoting that she had wanted a divorce, but decided to stay for the children. She then bowed her head and explained that she was sorry for being so cold, harsh, strict, and unforgiving for the last few years.

The man jerked at the thought of divorce. He took hold of his wife's hands and apologized once more. He then asked what he could do to alter his behaviors. The two decided that they should be equals when it came to the raising of their children. As Charles had promised years before, he would allow Isolde to teach him her native language of Gaelic. The man was hesitant to agree to this at first but soon gave in, realizing his wife staying meant more to him than the class structures between England and Ireland.

He then called the children into the room. Every one of them came except for Athena, who had seldom been out of her room since Sir Claudius's passing. Charles asked Isolde to tell her tales she knew—something which had never been done before in the family. Typically, only Charles told tales of Greece and Rome, and even then, he hadn't done that in a while.

Isolde told tales of the Irish past as well as mythical creatures, explaining how to live amongst them and respect them. She spoke as if she truly believed in the beasts, which Charles found strange—but it was intriguing nonetheless, and more importantly, the children enjoyed the tales.

She explained, too, that these tales of the past help prepare for the future. Humanity cannot thrive without stories to help navigate them through life.

At least that was one thing Charles and his wife could agree on. He leaned back in his chair, lit a cigar, and shut his eyes. The fireplace crackled as Isolde finished her story.

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Nearly one year after Sir Claudius's passing, Isolde announced to her family that she was with child once again. It had been five or six years since the last one was born, the longest break between children the Everleighs ever had.

Mostly everyone in the family was content with their way of life. Charles adored his job in Dublin, Isolde was thrilled to be having another baby, the children were as happy as ever.

Only Athena seemed to be depressed still. Nothing made her happy—not the baby on the way, not agreeable suitors and beaux asking for her hand, nothing. The only times she rose out of her depression was when Monsieur Clermont completed another tapestry for Beochaoineadh Castle. Or when the local craftsmen of the town finished renovating and refurbishing the place. It did look significantly better—more welcoming.

She seemed to spend almost every day there, overseeing new projects and gathering gold for the workers. Monsieur Clermont spent a hefty amount of time there and designed and outlined new fabrics and furniture.

As for the Frenchman's business, it was going as well as it ever had. His partnering with Helena was one of the best business decisions ever made, in Charles's opinion. She helped him with his conversational skills, building upon those Sir Claudius had given him. She also told all of her friends in Dublin and England to visit the shop, gathering customers as well as workers and other people in the fashion world. It also gave Margie a place in life besides shadowing in her mother's footsteps, and Rubina something to do besides gawk at young men.

And Charles didn't have to worry about pesky visits over there at Helena's townhouse in Dublin anymore, for he saw her weekly while on his way to work, waving at her in the window of the shop. Life seemed to be going perfectly well for him, the lines all connecting together like pieces of a puzzle.

But Athena… She was the only thing he was still troubled over. It was not good for her, and he knew it, to be visiting Beochaoineadh Castle so often—seeing that sculpture and being in the home of her deceased friend so often. It was beginning to take a toll on her; her pretty skin and eyes sank into the back of her head, and her face drew up like an old witchy woman. A part of him wished he had never encouraged her to take a position at the castle so that he could suffer instead. It was hard to believe he was looking at the same girl—a woman now—as he had only three years before.

One day, she found the book Sir Claudius had gifted her on her sixteenth birthday, and that nearly killed her. She began to cry, and one could hear her wails all the way from the forest line. Charles feared that she would soon go mad, but kept hope that one day, a young suitor would come along who would alter her mind and world—just as Isolde had for him.

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Author's Note

As you may have noticed, the style is a little different in this chapter. This is the first (and only) chapter where the POV is entirely from Charles Everleigh, so I wanted the style to fit his personality and speech patterns in his head. This was interesting to write for me and a good exploration of prose/exposition, I think. Can't believe we only have two chapters and an epilogue left!