Author's Note: I guess it is still pretty short, but I had to end it where
I did, otherwise this chapter would be WAY too long. You have a choice
between shorter chapters more frequently or longer chapters less
frequently. Let me know what you want, please. Forgive me if I get
character's personalities a little off, I try my best but it is just a
little hard to imagine how Marguerite would react. *shrugs*
Oh! And I forgot a disclaimer! Oops!
I own nothing, except the Roxton children, the Malone children(who you'll
meet later, or well, hear about), Gabrielle and Nathaniel, who also come
into play next chapter, as well as the plot and most things in the time
period Isabella is coming from.
Isabella couldn't stand it any longer and ran back into the room she'd just come from, sobbing and trying to catch her breath. Malone followed, but Roxton crouched beside the stunned Marguerite, the well-worn picture still clasped in his hand. He tried his best to stifle a chuckle before he gently took her hand and closed her fingers around the photo.
"This is Isabella's family," he whispered in her ear. "Her father, her brother, and her mother."
Marguerite's eyes closed for a moment, not daring to look at the picture.
"Marguerite," he chided, taking one finger to her chin and softly turning her head towards the photograph. "She's beautiful. She looks like her mother."
The dark haired woman finally opened her eyes and let them drift to each of the persons in the picture. As her gaze rested on the boy, she stole a glance at Lord Roxton and immediately noticed the similarity. Then she looked to the father figure, none other than John himself, a little older, a little happier. The girl was Isabella, no doubt, much younger and much happier, a roguish smile like Roxton's adorning her small face. Drifting upwards, to the mother figure, the little boy curled in her lap, Marguerite knew -there was no doubting- it was herself.
She felt herself almost smile. Roxton chuckled beside her. She stared at him, old shields coming up as she snapped at him.
"You find this so amusing, don't you? I would have you know there MUST be a mistake. I would never bear you two children!" She nearly sprang from her seat, but John caught her wrist and pulled her back down.
"Pictures don't lie, Marguerite."
"No, but teenage girls do," she replied icily.
"Are you trying to imply Isabella is lying? She clearly knew Malone, and she called me Father as soon as she woke up. Obviously she recognized you. It put her all out of sorts," Roxton cried. He thought on his last words for a minute. "She didn't seem surprised at all to see me. but seeing you made her very upset."
He leapt from the ground, placing a quick kiss on Marguerite's cheek before she could protest and darted into the room where his daughter now was, leaving the heiress to study the picture.
Finding Malone clumsily trying to comfort the emotional fourteen-year- old, Roxton almost laughed. "I'll take it from here, Neddie-boy. After all, she is my daughter. Or will be."
The blond younger man nodded with a small smile and slid away from Isabella, leaving the pair in peace. Roxton took his place on the small bed next to the girl. Laying an awkward hand on her back, he stroked her mane of brown curls. Her sobs were quiet now, every now and then a particularly large one rocking her petite form. When she calmed down a little, he finally worked up the nerve to speak.
"Isabella, may I ask you a question?" he spoke in a near whisper.
Drying her eyes and nose on her raggedy sleeves, she looked at him. In that moment, he was struck with her remarkable resemblance to Marguerite; same bone structure and eyes just to name a few similarities.
"Of course. Only if I can ask one first," she smiled through her tears.
"Shoot."
"What do I call you? You aren't my father, yet, but you will be. I....I just don't know what to call you," she laughed.
"Well, um. That is a tough one," he chuckled. "Roxton will be fine, but I know that is your own last name. No one really calls me John, but you of course are free to. Hmmm. And well, Father doesn't sound too horrible at the moment." He passed a roguish grin in her direction, and to his surprise and delight, she bounced it back to him like a mirror.
She took a deep breath and let it out, saying, "John it is. But Father may slip in a few times, so forgive me."
"Of course," he grinned, ruffling her curly hair as she playfully batted his hand away. "Now my question."
"Okay. Go ahead."
"When you awoke and saw me, you didn't look too surprised or too distraught."
"Well I saw you this morning, or well, this morning in fifteen years. You know what I mean."
Roxton offered a sympathetic smile as she threw her hands up in the air in confusion. "But then why were you so emotional about seeing Marguerite?"
It was her turn to sympathetically smile. "I haven't seen my mother in five years. Neither have you."
"What?" Roxton cried, his eyes widening. He gulped, "Is she.dead?"
She gave a weak shrug. "I wouldn't know. As far as I know, she is alive. But she left you and I five years ago, when Jack."
"Jack? The boy in the picture? Your brother?" Roxton asked, trying to let it all sink in as his heart fell into his stomach.
She nodded, tears piercing her gray eyes again.
"What happened to Jack?"
"He....." she gulped. "He died. Right before Mother left us." Her face wrinkled with concealed tears. "He was only seven."
Pain stabbed Lord John Roxton's heart. His son, or future son, dead, at seven. He wrapped his arm around Isabella and she buried her face in his shoulder, crying heavier now.
He looked towards the door and saw his Marguerite leaning in the doorway, tears in her eyes as well. In that moment, he was torn, because he couldn't comfort them both. Perhaps that is how the Roxton of the future would feel when his own son was taken from this life. Torn between the woman he loved and the daughter, recipient of the unconditional love only a father can give.
Fortunately for 1924 Roxton, the daughter was now asleep. He carefully picked her up and laid her underneath the blankets, promising himself he'd make sure she was cleaned up in the morning. Brushing a final curl away from her closed eyes, he turned to the door. Marguerite was still there, not having moved since he first noticed her.
As he approached her, conflicting emotions over took him. Betrayal and anger raced through him, as he knew she would one day leave him. Shared grief, or whatever this utter sadness inside of him was, waged battle against the anger and betrayal, along with the love he felt for her.
Coming up next to her and leaning on the opposite door frame, he made no move to speak and neither did she.
Finally, he broke the silence. "Perhaps it would be best for us not to speak of this until she can give us the full story in the morning. Challenger, Veronica, and Finn should be here as well by then. As a group, as a family, maybe we can figure this out."
She only nodded slightly, quickly swiping a stray tear from her eye. After a while longer she said softly, "I believe you now. She's your daughter. She has your smile."
"Our daughter," he gently corrected and then grinned. "She has your eyes, your beauty, and our shared knack of getting into sticky situations."
A sound came from his beloved that was very close to a short laugh.
His eyes twinkled at her.
"Well, she has your hair color, at least," Marguerite managed, brushing a small hand through his hair quickly.
"But your curls," Roxton added. "I never had curly hair."
"Probably a good thing," she grinned a little teasingly.
He chuckled and the sound made Isabella stir uncomfortably under her covers.
"Maybe we should retire, now, so we don't wake her. Poor thing's very tired," Roxton suggested.
She nodded, walking off towards her own room, much to his disappointment. "Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams," he smiled, watching her walk to her room and then taking a final peek as Isabella before letting the curtain to her room drop behind him as he made his way to his room.
As he settled under the blankets, Isabella's words replayed in his ears. "I haven't seen my mother in five years." "...she left you and I..." "Jack..."
Roxton fell asleep worried that night.
Isabella couldn't stand it any longer and ran back into the room she'd just come from, sobbing and trying to catch her breath. Malone followed, but Roxton crouched beside the stunned Marguerite, the well-worn picture still clasped in his hand. He tried his best to stifle a chuckle before he gently took her hand and closed her fingers around the photo.
"This is Isabella's family," he whispered in her ear. "Her father, her brother, and her mother."
Marguerite's eyes closed for a moment, not daring to look at the picture.
"Marguerite," he chided, taking one finger to her chin and softly turning her head towards the photograph. "She's beautiful. She looks like her mother."
The dark haired woman finally opened her eyes and let them drift to each of the persons in the picture. As her gaze rested on the boy, she stole a glance at Lord Roxton and immediately noticed the similarity. Then she looked to the father figure, none other than John himself, a little older, a little happier. The girl was Isabella, no doubt, much younger and much happier, a roguish smile like Roxton's adorning her small face. Drifting upwards, to the mother figure, the little boy curled in her lap, Marguerite knew -there was no doubting- it was herself.
She felt herself almost smile. Roxton chuckled beside her. She stared at him, old shields coming up as she snapped at him.
"You find this so amusing, don't you? I would have you know there MUST be a mistake. I would never bear you two children!" She nearly sprang from her seat, but John caught her wrist and pulled her back down.
"Pictures don't lie, Marguerite."
"No, but teenage girls do," she replied icily.
"Are you trying to imply Isabella is lying? She clearly knew Malone, and she called me Father as soon as she woke up. Obviously she recognized you. It put her all out of sorts," Roxton cried. He thought on his last words for a minute. "She didn't seem surprised at all to see me. but seeing you made her very upset."
He leapt from the ground, placing a quick kiss on Marguerite's cheek before she could protest and darted into the room where his daughter now was, leaving the heiress to study the picture.
Finding Malone clumsily trying to comfort the emotional fourteen-year- old, Roxton almost laughed. "I'll take it from here, Neddie-boy. After all, she is my daughter. Or will be."
The blond younger man nodded with a small smile and slid away from Isabella, leaving the pair in peace. Roxton took his place on the small bed next to the girl. Laying an awkward hand on her back, he stroked her mane of brown curls. Her sobs were quiet now, every now and then a particularly large one rocking her petite form. When she calmed down a little, he finally worked up the nerve to speak.
"Isabella, may I ask you a question?" he spoke in a near whisper.
Drying her eyes and nose on her raggedy sleeves, she looked at him. In that moment, he was struck with her remarkable resemblance to Marguerite; same bone structure and eyes just to name a few similarities.
"Of course. Only if I can ask one first," she smiled through her tears.
"Shoot."
"What do I call you? You aren't my father, yet, but you will be. I....I just don't know what to call you," she laughed.
"Well, um. That is a tough one," he chuckled. "Roxton will be fine, but I know that is your own last name. No one really calls me John, but you of course are free to. Hmmm. And well, Father doesn't sound too horrible at the moment." He passed a roguish grin in her direction, and to his surprise and delight, she bounced it back to him like a mirror.
She took a deep breath and let it out, saying, "John it is. But Father may slip in a few times, so forgive me."
"Of course," he grinned, ruffling her curly hair as she playfully batted his hand away. "Now my question."
"Okay. Go ahead."
"When you awoke and saw me, you didn't look too surprised or too distraught."
"Well I saw you this morning, or well, this morning in fifteen years. You know what I mean."
Roxton offered a sympathetic smile as she threw her hands up in the air in confusion. "But then why were you so emotional about seeing Marguerite?"
It was her turn to sympathetically smile. "I haven't seen my mother in five years. Neither have you."
"What?" Roxton cried, his eyes widening. He gulped, "Is she.dead?"
She gave a weak shrug. "I wouldn't know. As far as I know, she is alive. But she left you and I five years ago, when Jack."
"Jack? The boy in the picture? Your brother?" Roxton asked, trying to let it all sink in as his heart fell into his stomach.
She nodded, tears piercing her gray eyes again.
"What happened to Jack?"
"He....." she gulped. "He died. Right before Mother left us." Her face wrinkled with concealed tears. "He was only seven."
Pain stabbed Lord John Roxton's heart. His son, or future son, dead, at seven. He wrapped his arm around Isabella and she buried her face in his shoulder, crying heavier now.
He looked towards the door and saw his Marguerite leaning in the doorway, tears in her eyes as well. In that moment, he was torn, because he couldn't comfort them both. Perhaps that is how the Roxton of the future would feel when his own son was taken from this life. Torn between the woman he loved and the daughter, recipient of the unconditional love only a father can give.
Fortunately for 1924 Roxton, the daughter was now asleep. He carefully picked her up and laid her underneath the blankets, promising himself he'd make sure she was cleaned up in the morning. Brushing a final curl away from her closed eyes, he turned to the door. Marguerite was still there, not having moved since he first noticed her.
As he approached her, conflicting emotions over took him. Betrayal and anger raced through him, as he knew she would one day leave him. Shared grief, or whatever this utter sadness inside of him was, waged battle against the anger and betrayal, along with the love he felt for her.
Coming up next to her and leaning on the opposite door frame, he made no move to speak and neither did she.
Finally, he broke the silence. "Perhaps it would be best for us not to speak of this until she can give us the full story in the morning. Challenger, Veronica, and Finn should be here as well by then. As a group, as a family, maybe we can figure this out."
She only nodded slightly, quickly swiping a stray tear from her eye. After a while longer she said softly, "I believe you now. She's your daughter. She has your smile."
"Our daughter," he gently corrected and then grinned. "She has your eyes, your beauty, and our shared knack of getting into sticky situations."
A sound came from his beloved that was very close to a short laugh.
His eyes twinkled at her.
"Well, she has your hair color, at least," Marguerite managed, brushing a small hand through his hair quickly.
"But your curls," Roxton added. "I never had curly hair."
"Probably a good thing," she grinned a little teasingly.
He chuckled and the sound made Isabella stir uncomfortably under her covers.
"Maybe we should retire, now, so we don't wake her. Poor thing's very tired," Roxton suggested.
She nodded, walking off towards her own room, much to his disappointment. "Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams," he smiled, watching her walk to her room and then taking a final peek as Isabella before letting the curtain to her room drop behind him as he made his way to his room.
As he settled under the blankets, Isabella's words replayed in his ears. "I haven't seen my mother in five years." "...she left you and I..." "Jack..."
Roxton fell asleep worried that night.