A/N: Hello friends, I did not expect to be taking a full year off working on this fic, but I am officially back – and hoping to be able to update this regularly! Please read and review xx
He had to get out. Misselthwaite felt suffocating, like a cold, damp prison holding him in the past. And, Archibald thought, staying here any longer would surely kill him.
Though perhaps that was what he wanted...
This time last year he was awoken by his brother, the lifeless form of his love cradled in his arms. He hadn't considered he'd have to face such when they'd fallen asleep the night previous, and he scorned himself for it now.
He had been too caught up thinking about her to remember his son's birthday. Now, the forgotten child was a welcome distraction from that tainted image of his Lilias.
So many questions passed through his head, questions he felt he should know the answers to:
How is he feeling?
Will he end up like his father?
Will he die?
What sort of stories does he like to listen to?
What does he like to play with?
Is he walking?
Is he talking?
Should he be?
Lilias would have known the answer to that last one. From seeing the way she raised her blooms – with the utmost love and passion – he was sure she had a natural motherly inclination.
He had never imagined he'd marry, so how could he have prepared himself to be a father? From the moment his wife had told him she was with child, he had put his faith in her ability to teach him.
But she never got the chance to – she hardly had gotten the chance to be a mother. She, who wanted a little one so dearly, whom she'd literally given her life to bring into the world.
In an effort to maintain his composure, the craven Lord mustered what courage he could and resolved to look in on his son, to say goodbye before his journey. He desperately tried to silence the unceasing reminders prattling through his head that this time – each time – could be the last time he'd ever see the boy.
One influence did succeed in silencing these troubles: mysterious cries in the corridor leading to his son's room. They didn't bother Archibald, he'd been hearing and seeing things which weren't there since that day in the ballroom. No, these signs neither frightened nor phased him; they were simply so loud that they drowned out his internal monologue. These cries may have meant sorrow, but they at least meant the boy was alive.
The baron stood before the tapestry-covered door which marked the portal to his son's rooms, but was halted from entering by his brother quitting the very corridor he'd planned to enter. Neville stiffened as he nearly collided with his brother, trying in vain to conceal the medical bag in his hand.
It didn't matter, the look on the doctor's face said it all.
"You'd best leave him be, Archie," he sighed, removing his spectacles and wiping his brown, "he has had a fitful past few days… things are not looking well."
The master nodded in acknowledgement, then pushed his brother aside to check on the boy himself regardless of this warning.
He crept into the room, carefully closing the door so as to not awaken Colin. The nurse was clearly surprised by his entry, but he paid her no mind. As he slowly made his way to the boy's bedside the girl dutifully drew the silken rose curtain across the portrait of Lilias before slipping into the hall. The doctor always kept it uncovered whilst he was inside the sickroom.
Looking down at the resting infant, Archibald instinctively moved to place his hand on the former's brown; but he quickly pulled it back before doing so, unable to risk disturbing his son – her son – for fear the little one would open his curious hazel eyes, so alike (yet so unlike) his mother's.
"Fare-thee-well, my boy," he whispered quietly.
"I pray for the best–" he paused abruptly; was he being earnest? Was he truly praying that Colin would get well, or was he trying to convince himself of it.
It is what Lilias would have wanted him to say.
The boy shifted in his sleep a tad, and Archibald steeled himself to continue, looking toward the covered portrait above the mantle.
"You may be with your mother before I return – and perhaps that is for the best. Give her my love, Colin."
The name burned on his tongue and barely trembled past his lips. What could be heard, had anyone been listening, was more an audible sob than a proper word.
His son began to fuss, as though sensing his father's growing agitation.
Seeing him start to cry and shake, Archibald struggled to maintain a hold on his own emotions. He stumbled back, trying to find his balance before finding the wall instead and falling to the floor in a pathetic heap.
His eyes were shut tight, but he could hear the sound of rushing footsteps from the other side of the partition. A moment later he was being helped up and led out of the room by his brother. The nurse tended to the child.
"I can't do it, Neville," he choked out, "I can't be the father Lilias wanted me to be."
The doctor offered soothing words as he led Archibald out to the carriage.
The last thing the elder brother said was, "he will die, won't he?"
It was more of a statement than a question, but Neville took the liberty of answering vaguely.
"I am doing my best for him. I'll write to inform you of any changes."
Saying this, he shut the door and watched the carriage slowly make its way down the winding road out of the park. He took a deep breath and went back inside, already preparing an apology for the nurse whom he left alone.
He was doing his best. Just as he had done for his sister-in-law, but where did that get her?
The next few days saw little improvement in the boy, but the doctor was hopeful, since things had, at least, not gotten worse. Hopeful, in his professional opinion, but he still struggled to determine whether or not his personal opinion agreed that an improvement would be best.
That didn't matter. He'd write to his brother with an update in a few more days; he was still en route.
It had been about a week of leisurely travel before Archibald stepped upon the dock of his lakeside villa in the mountains of Italy. It seemed to him the air was clearer here; it didn't suffocate him as the halls of Misselthwaite had done. Nor was there any irritating noise dully pulsing in the background of his days, as with the bustling streets beneath his flat in Paris.
Those had not served a helpful purpose when he had last gone there.
He looked out across the water at the slowly setting sun. A gentle breeze disturbed the glassy lake, the tiny waves glistening under the red sky. Summer days were not quite as long here as they were in Yorkshire, a welcome change for the Lord.
In the stillness of the twilight he allowed his mind to drift back to his bed-ridden boy. The handsome features of his drawn visage sharpened as he contemplated the state of the child's health.
He seemed to stay stuck in this thought for too long; he couldn't let go of it. Every distraction he'd try to force into his fancies always drifted back to the sight of his boy crying and him being unable to help, unable to be a father.
In spite of the clear mountain air, Archibald suddenly felt his breath coming shallower and his heartbeat quickening. Overcome, he used his walking stick to ease himself down, his mind swimming.
He turned away from the horizon, lowering still closer to the ground just as the setting sun he was trying to remove from his view – the glow of it was becoming too much of a strain on his narrowing vision.
He tried to call to Pitcher, but could not find his voice. "Am I dying?" he wondered aloud, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. He half-hoped he was; he would be with Lilias again.
Or was he already?
He could only lift his head a bit above the wooden panels of the dock, but he thought he saw purple skirts flitting about on shore. Certainly he heard the sound of a woman laughing.
The violet dress approached him, and he faintly heard the sounds of footsteps like those of a woman's boots.
As the figure drew closer, he decided that periwinkle was a more appropriate description for the woman in front of him; the hue of the fabric had been darkened from afar by the scarlet sky. Now that she was closer, the true shade became clearer.
Lilias wore periwinkle hair ribbons for the portrait which now hung in her son's room.
However silly such a detail may be, Archibald found that concentrating on it helped to slow down his thoughts. But his heart was still racing.
"Archie," he heard from above. Light and musical, and reassuring that he had yet to forget such a beautiful voice.
"Lilias?" he murmured, his voice weaker and his head heavier than before.
He felt a hand on his head as the world spun about him. This hand, though, was not the delicate feminine one he had expected.
He realised almost immediately that it belonged to his valet; and he carefully opened his eyes to find himself in bed, already regretting letting his vision slip away.
He refused to believe that it was nothing more than a dream.
A maid placed a cold towel upon his brow. He sighed in contentment as he lay back down upon his pillow, hopeful that his wife would join him in his rest.
He was ill. No one had to tell him so – he'd been accustomed to such fits in his youth. Lilias had made it all better, but where was she now?
In Paradise, he reminded himself, shaking his head in agitation.
Why hadn't she taken him with her when they were outside? She was right there, on the dock with him! It would have been so simple, so lovely, so freeing. Perhaps it had been nothing but a dream.
Although, perhaps she may have wanted him to live for her son. Their son. Live as he had promised her he would that night before she left him.
Could he truly stay apart from her for Colin's sake?
Perhaps.