A/N: Oh look I'm back much sooner than last time! I was on vacation a few weeks ago, which is why I was "delayed" in posting this chapter, but I am hoping to be able to update once a week until I am finished 3 Please drop a review to let me know what you think – this is a tiny fandom and every view I get is precious to me.
Christmas was fast approaching, and with it came the new year – another new year that would be rung in at Misselthwaite without the joy of a fancy dress party filling the ballroom with life, with excitement, with the buzz of high society gossip.
Three years ago Lord Archibald Craven had used such a festivity to announce his engagement to the beautiful Lilias MacLaren, and he couldn't be happier. She was one of the most sought-after girls her debutante year, and she had chosen him – the crippled recluse whom every other woman had scorned! – and was delighted to stand at his side during such a toast.
"We don't have to do this so publicly," he had said to her before.
But she dismissed this suggestion quickly with a demure wave, reassuring him, "I love you, Archie – truly, wholly, deeply – and I want the whole world to know it. I am yours and only yours for the rest of my life."
And what a short life it was
He had a slew of reasons ready to counteract her, the first of which was "because everyone will believe our relationship is nothing more than convenience," but he did not wish to bring her spirits down, not when her eyes were shining and her smile was beaming up at him.
Besides, he knew what she would say to that.
"We know that isn't true, and that's all that matters where our marriage is concerned."
His heart fair burst at the sight of her, and such went far beyond the mere beauty she exuded. He felt joy in his soul at the sight of her own happiness, and in the knowledge that he was the reason for that happiness.
Two years ago Lilias Lady Craven had been a model host of the same famed tradition which was begun by her late mother-in-law.
"It's all so extravagant," he could hear her saying as she removed the mask disguising her visage, though nothing could disguise her eyes, "but they all seem to be enjoying themselves."
"You've done an extravagant job of putting it on, my love." He kissed her gloved hand, never breaking eye contact – a silent sentence telling her that there were a few other places he would rather place his lips had they not been surrounded by the public's eye.
She blushed shyly, drawing the fan in her other hand across her brow. Catching this movement, Archibald apologized, but both knew he had not meant it.
He did know, though, that he was forgiven when her lips soundlessly told him "later" and guiltily looked around before placing the handle of her fan to her mouth, which she let linger open a moment more than was proper.
Last year, society had accepted that it would be inappropriate for a household in mourning to host such a gaudy event.
Now, such a period had ended in society's eyes, but not in Archibald's heart; he had lost a part of himself – a part he never dreamed he would know; but now that he had known such a thing as true love, he thought himself incapable of living without her.
The past year and a half crawled by, but every dragging instant equally seemed a brief eternity since she was last in his arms. Each day he expected life to get easier, but it only became more intolerable. He missed seeing her everyday, and hearing her voice – things that faded from his memory with each passing day, no matter how desperately he tried to hold on.
He was growing accustomed to living without her. How easily he could now find sleep without feeling her warmth beside him, without hearing her soft, lulling breaths, knowing that he would never again wake up to the feel of her sweet caresses.
And he was to blame for it all.
The summer and autumn he had passed in Italy had served to lighten his fears, yet the burden of his loss lingered. Archibald planned to remain in the mountains until he felt better or until the memories of Lilias chased him away, or until his own time on earth had expired – whichever happened to come first.
It seemed to the poor old cripple that the last of these circumstances would be most ideal, the most tempting solution to his unending troubles and perpetual solitude.
In the meantime, the crisp morning air filled his chamber, and he savoured the scent of pine needles wafting in. He was not quite ready to relinquish his dreams and be forced to pull himself together for another meaningless day.
He rolled over to survey a letter placed upon his nightstand. It was from his brother.
Mr. Pitcher had left it there the night previous when it was delivered with the evening mail; Archibald had been too weary to bother with it before bed. He dreaded the contents, but he wasn't sure why.
If it was good news of his son's health, he should be happy – Lilias would be; and if it was bad news, well, hadn't he hoped the boy's suffering would end and he would join his mother in the next world?
He closed his eyes, hoping visions of his love would bring him peace. They only brought more pain.
They made clear to him why he so feared news of his son's untimely reunion with Lilias: it would mean he had failed.
He had failed to be the father Lilias wanted him to be – believed him capable of becoming. And he felt so guilty for it.
Afterall, it was his fault that the boy was so sick. He had warned Lilias that such illness and deformity would be possible, but she had dismissed him – dismissed him! – as her melodic voice expressed to him how much she wanted to have children with him.
"No other man deserves this kind of love from me," she blushed, brushing the hair off his brow and kissing him.
"Besides," shifting to position herself even more impossibly close to him, "how could I carry and care for a child for nine months and disdain them after they are born?" she explained.
A smile attempted to mask the sadness in her eyes, but Archibald could still see she was thinking about her sister as she said those words. He held her tight, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her nose; he was overcome with love as he remembered how she had sacrificed her old life to be his wife – all because she was so in love with him, and wanted to start a new family with him, and couldn't live without him.
Now he was living without her, and it was truly awful.
But his physical struggles which he was afraid of his boy inheriting were not the only fears which guilted him. No. He was to blame in more ways than one.
"I let her," he lamented aloud as sleep began to find him again.
He remembered the first time he had taken her out to the garden after they were married. They'd spend the spring preparing the soil and bulbs, but always with that gardener Lilias had taken a liking to as their chaperone.
"Ye may be out of doors, but in a secluded garden like this – gents'll talk poorly of the missus," Ben Weatherstaff had argued. He mostly stayed out of their way; Lilias's own timidness was enough to keep them from behaving improperly even without someone else with them.
Thus, their first time in the garden alone was new, different, exciting. She was his wife, and Archibald could not stop reminding himself. The thought filled him with such a warm joy, like one feels when they lay outside on the first hot day of the year. Her love seemed to fill him, overwhelm him, and he never wanted it to end.
He was captivated by her, she, wistfully looking up at the leaves on the grand oak tree. Her face was morphing through an array of emotions, and he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her slender waist.
They had taken breakfast with the family the morning after they were wed – which featured several sly looks from Neville which annoyed Archibald and embarrassed Lilias – so she was dressed formally in a boned bodice, but he knew she wore no stays beneath as he let his hands smooth over her figure.
She gasped at his touch, but eased when she recalled that they were alone (and wed!), reassured that she could submit to him, despite how unnatural this level of intimacy still felt, so new to married life.
Once relaxed, she placed her hands atop his and, tilting her head, hoped he could intuit the invitation she was giving.
He willingly complied, her eyes fluttering closed at the comfort, the familiarity, of his lips searing her skin.
Suddenly, she stiffened, and Archibald feared he had done something to upset her. After turning in his embrace to reassure him against such an idea with a lingering kiss, she slipped away to collect her journal which she had previously discarded on one of the stone benches nearby.
Pocketing the book and pencil, she sat down to remove her shoes and stockings, blushing as she did so, for she needn't look to know where her husband's eyes were roaming; and sprung up with a child-like vigor which possessed her to go over to the oak and attempt to climb it.
Archibald watched with cautious eyes, but she was sat upon a low-hanging bough quicker than he could have made it over to her had something happened.
She settled in nicely with her journal in her lap, looking down upon him with a bright smile fixed upon her pretty lips.
Sketching determinedly , she noted, "I think I'll wrap the roses over this branch."
He watched her, mesmerized by her golden hair, free from its proper pins, billowing in the wind. Every so often a dainty hand would reach up and brush some away from her eyes as she continued to draw.
He could feel that cool Yorkshire breeze now. Although the scent of heather and gorse was not to be found in the dead air of an Italian winter, such a gust disturbed his memory once more.
Archibald reluctantly sat up, slamming shut the window over his bed. He lost himself for a moment in thoughts of how pleasant nature used to seem to him – how Lilias had shown him the beauty in the tiny wonders coming alive out of the earth each year.
He liked to read. And he read books about flowers after meeting her, hoping to learn more about her through the blossoms she spent the days pouring over and gushing about. He memorized latin names, then she would introduce him to the local ones, impressed that a man had chosen to learn more about her interests.
Slowly, he realised it was no longer her interest, but his own that led him to find more and more books on the subject. Working outside in the garden was labourious, but rewarding; he never felt he was falling behind if he couldn't keep up with her. The fresh air agreed with him greatly, lifting his spirits and filling his mind with positive affirmations and happy thoughts of the future he once dreaded.
Now, the same air did nothing but scorn him and make him feel worthless. He had no desire to care for flowers because they reminded him of her, and that damned garden. The wonders of nature died with her, and brooding misery replaced the excitement it used to instill in him.
His bedroom was darkened by the overcast sky, and Mr. Pitcher had lit a candle for his master.
Defiantly, Archibald held the unopened missive from the doctor above the flame, and watched, transfixed, until it was nothing but ash cascading from his hand.
The contents didn't matter. The master was returning to Misselthwaite Manor.
But not to see his son – inevitable updates simply came with his return.
"The boy is less feverish, but he is still weak and highly susceptible to further illness."
The master waved his brother away. His mind was preoccupied by his real reason for returning.
"If he must see me," he began to his valet, "Neville may come to my room only after I am informed."
He spoke slowly, as if in a dream. His sad voice was soft and quiet, but its deep timbre succeeded in carrying his instructions to the trained recipient.
"Other than the two of you, no one is to disturb me, not even Medlock."
He had everything he needed within his apartment, and Mr. Pitcher could bring him his meals. He had his bedchamber, a sitting room, and a library – what else could he need? His life had no true value anymore. Even the work which sat on his desk was monotonous; his brother could do it if needed.
Archibald was alone in the world and it was all his fault.
"I let her climb that damned tree." He berated himself all through the night, trying to further justify his decision to cut himself off from the world.
"It was a bad idea at first, but foolish and irresponsible on my part whilst she was with child."
In his youth, he was shunned from society; now, it was all his own doing.
"She was practically a child; it was my duty as her husband to look out for her, protect her."
He saw no reason to continue on with society, putting up a mask and pretending that he could move on with his life without Lilias guiding him through the petty gossip and horrified stares.
"It was my blind love and trust in her that kept me from interfering, from voicing my opinions. But if I had, just once, she would still be here with me."
The thoughts swirled around the room, lulling Archibald to sleep, wrapped in sorrow and guilt and a quilt of down which his love would steal away from him whilst stuck in her own fancies of their future together once upon a time.