AN: Apologies for the delay. This has been ready for hours but was down from my side.
Part 21
Six months went by, as if a long sleep overcame him and when he woke, half of the year had passed unannounced. Six months had gone by and he was locked in a stupor of the alcohol that ensured that he would be in a constant state of numbness. Only in that numbness could he survive. Give him bouts of sobriety and he found himself supine in his bed, more useless than if he were floating alone in his scotch-enhanced dream world.
He started drinking when he woke up one day and found her gone. Beside him on the bed, where she was supposed to be, lay the ring he had offered her in Florence, the ring that had been returned to him when he fervently hoped it would be her. One night, he had slept, with the phantom figure of his dead wife in his arms.
And he had sworn, like he always did, that he would hold onto her forever.
Even, he told her for the first time, if she was truly gone.
As if the admission was his concession to the fact, Blair had stirred in his arms and raised her face to look at him with sad understanding and a measure of acceptance. "I will sorely miss you, my love," she told him, and then kissed his lips until he drifted off to sleep.
The morning after, she was gone.
Wordlessly, it seemed that she had broken her promise of forever and decided to leave him be, at peace with a life he did not want. The bottle was retaliation. He fed the poison to his body as if he believed that if he consumed enough, he could push his body to the brink of death and she would return to pull him back to the life she so willingly abandoned.
Six months later, and still there was no word, no visit, no sign from her. And so there he sat now, in his study, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed in near delirium. His parted lips moved as he breathed, "Come now, my love. Come and yell. Come and blame me for what I have become."
He waited from noon to dark it seemed, in vain.
And then one person did come, one he did not expect, one he had not laid eyes on since the wedding.
"Is this what you have become?"
And because he was not Blair, he was unwelcome. Chuck opened his eyes and squinted so that his poor vision could focus enough at the figure in front of him. "Nathaniel," he said in disgust. "Leave me be."
"And that is exactly what everyone else has done, in hopes you would rise from your stupor. But that is not what is happening," he told her. "I have stood by long enough."
Chuck sat up in his chair and glared at his friend. "What are you doing?" he asked softly, his voice threatening. "Are you not afraid of me? I have sent away my wife because of you."
Nathaniel grinned, and it offended Chuck. "Who should be afraid of a drunkard such as you?" he parried. "You sent her away for reasons less logical than her attachment to me," Nathaniel pointed out. "And if you were truly mad with me… Well, you will be unable to hit me even if you tried." And then Nathaniel snorted. "As if you could even stand."
Chuck grasped the arms of his chair and pulled himself up, then found it so dizzying he was forced to sit and think of another way to hurt the man. "She loved me."
"You are right," Nathaniel offered.
It was impossible, because Nathaniel should have denied it. Chuck did not know how to respond to the tactic Nathaniel utilized now. "Not you," Chuck emphasized.
"Tis true," said Nathaniel.
Chuck narrowed his eyes. "Damn you."
"And you as well."
"What the hell do you want?" Chuck spat, tired and exasperated with Nathaniel's strategy.
"Your father may have chosen to leave you alone. And your sister is knee-deep in her own affairs." Nathaniel offered another grim smile. "But I have time in my hands and who better to waste it on than my wasted friend? I am off to White's, and I am here to take you along."
Chuck snorted at what he chose to perceive as an insult. "I have an open invitation to White's. I do not need you to get me in." In fact, he had an invitation to both the prominent gentlemen's clubs in London—White's and Brooke's. "I choose not to come."
"Exactly the point." Nathaniel walked over to his friend, then grasped his arm. Chuck glared at him when Nathaniel pulled him up and motioned to Chuck's valet to assist. "You are going to take a much needed bath. You stink of scotch and your own odors."
"You need not sniff after me," Chuck yelled after Nathaniel.
It was no small measure of success for Nathaniel when Chuck managed to walk into the club unassisted. At their entrance, a hush fell over the group of men. It was, after all, Chuck's first outing after his wedding, and all the unfortunate circumstances that followed. But men were men, and Nathaniel sighed in relief when everyone turned back to their own affairs after their initial shock.
To his surprise, his friend started to talk, "Did I tell you about gentlemen's clubs in Paris, Nathaniel?"
Nathaniel nodded towards Lord Denver and Baron Easton, who were playing cards with Mr Baizen. He was not going to join that group any time soon. Mr Baizen had taken five hundred pounds from him the last game they played. "Tell me it is nothing like ours."
"Clubs were sophisticated genteel pubs with a stage for performance." Chuck gave a soft smile at the memory. "That is where I first saw her."
"A gentleman's club?" Nathaniel prompted, willing his friend to continue. Everyone had always said it was best to talk. If Serena were to be believed, Chuck refused to speak of Blair to anyone, even his stepmother.
"First time ever I saw her, the marchioness of Hartington was dancing on the stage of a gentlemen's club named The Black Flower," Chuck narrated fondly. "Even then I knew she was no ordinary dancer. She teased us with that wretched satin ribbon." He turned to his friend. "I was so intrigued that I hurried after her." He gave a soft laugh. "She kissed me that night."
"Right," Nathaniel commented blandly. "Right on the first night in Paris, when you were supposed to be looking for my bride."
Chuck sighed, then said the words that were long due, the admission that took so long despite recognizing that Nathaniel probably knew. "I was in love with Blair, and I am sorry."
Nathaniel grasped Chuck's arm. "You have never said that before," he told Chuck with a small smile. "About anyone."
"It was time," Chuck managed.
He excused himself to mill about. It was what Nathaniel wanted when he brought his friend over. It was time to end the self-imposed exile and live in the world, in the now. Chuck made his way towards the infamous betting book of White's. He had plenty to spare, and a scandalous wager might just be the thing to amuse him. He leafed through the pages and scoured the titillating bets patterned after gossip and news and speculation.
Lord Hardwick, for example, bet Mr Sheffield a hundred pounds that mutton prices would double by the end of the month.
Ridiculous.
Chuck read the next.
Mr Kittredge wagered a hundred pounds that Nathaniel and Serena would break of their engagement by the end of the week. Oddly enough, there were no takers. It was almost as if everyone believed it was a certainty, not worth a wager at all.
He turned the page.
Lord G wagered Lord T that Carter Baizen was going to be held up shotgun in a wedding in three months.
Chuck snickered. Someone knew something Mr Baizen did not.
The next page wiped the mirth off his face.
Lord Matthews proposed a wager to any taker, on when the widower marquis of H would take a new bride. A notation at the bottom indicated he would double the stakes if anyone could guess where the new one would come from. Apparently, Lord Matthews believed that Lord Hartington would return to Paris in order to snag another Frenchwoman.
Chuck closed the book, then strode towards where Lord Matthews was smoking his cigar with a couple of his business associates. Nathaniel's eyes widened when he saw the look on his friend's face. Chuck grabbed Lord Matthews by his cravat, then pulled him to his feet. Chuck threw the first punch to the man's jaw.
Chuck jabbed his finger onto the man's chest. "You do not involve my wife in anything ever again!" he warned.
"What is the problem, Hartington?" Matthews yelled back. "It was only for fun. Fun never hurt anyone."
A stranger, one gentleman they were both unfamiliar with, pulled apart the two. "There now," the man murmured. "Leave it. Be the better man," he urged Chuck.
Nathaniel pulled Chuck away from the scene, but Chuck lashed back. "If I see or hear you refer to her again, I will roast your balls over my fireplace while you are still attached to the measly little things that you would pray for them to fall off instead."
"You are insane, Hartington!" Matthews returned. "You've done your share of wagers in those books." Then he looked at Nathaniel, "Your friend obviously is not yet prepared to join the real world, Archibald. Take him back home."
The men in the club successfully tore the angry men apart. Nathaniel sat Chuck down and handed him a glass of water. The stranger who had assisted them sat down in front of Chuck, then extended his hand. "Marcus Beaton."
"Earl of Pembroke?" Nathaniel asked.
Marcus appeared confused, and then his face cleared and he nodded. "Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am still unused to the title. I was raised a second son."
"Right," Nathaniel remembered. "Your brother died and left you with the title."
"And a lovely niece," Marcus added.
Chuck whispered. "I am sorry for your loss." He clenched and unclenched his fist.
Marcus nodded in appreciation. "And I for yours."
"Listen, Marcus," Nathaniel began. "You seem like a fine man, and I would like to invite you to a small gathering in my home. It would be an honor to have you join us."
Marcus rose and laughed, pleased. However, he shook his head. "As much as I would love to, this is a day's visit to London. I live in the country."
Chuck frowned. "Why would you choose to live there?"
"You will be surprised at how beautiful it is, especially at sunset. Your estate borders mine," he realized. "Have you not noticed?"
"I have not been to Hartington in a year," Chuck told their new friend. He had no plans to visit Hartington either. There was no way he could look at the home that she was supposed to live in, and register that she was nowhere close. If he went there, he would create a new world in his head, one where they raised a beautiful, young family in the country. The dissolution of his fantasies the first time almost broke him. He could not risk another collapse.
"Well I have only come to London to purchase a piece of antique furniture I had set my heart on during my last visit," Marcus told them. "Now I have it in my possession, and I must hurry home." He looked thoughtful. "Why don't the two of you come for a visit? I am certain the ladies in my house would love to meet people other than me or the servants."
"I have plans of leaving for Tuscany," Chuck said, belatedly recognizing that he would do the exact same thing in Tuscany. Only this time, it would be more real. She would be more alive. And he could more clearly imagine every one of the phantom scenes that he would smell and touch and feel her everywhere.
Nathaniel sighed, then shook his head. "A trip to the country would do you good, Chuck." When his friend seemed uncertain, he excused them from Marcus and pulled Chuck aside. "There is no need to replace your townhouse with your villa, and be imprisoned all the same."
~o~o~o~o~o~
"You will be glad you decided to come!" Marcus yelled above the hooves as they pulled up the driveway to his country home.
Chuck grunted unconvinced, and Nathaniel nodded. The three men jumped off their horses and dusted off. Chuck looked up when at once, the door opened and out ran a slip of a girl.
"Uncle!" the girl squealed.
"Emma!" Marcus greeted. Emma raced down the steps and barreled into Marcus. "I am dirty and I will ruin your pretty dress," he told his niece.
"We missed you, uncle," Emma sighed, and then coughed when she breathed the dust.
"I told you so," Marcus said to his niece. He then turned to his companions.
"My lords, this is my lovely niece Lady Emma Beaton. She is all of fifteen years old, and will be debuting in London very soon. Emma, this is the marquis of Hartington, Lord Charles Bass." He then turned to Nathaniel. "And this is Lord Nathaniel Archibald."
Emma extended her hand. "Pleased to meet you."
"Likewise," Nathaniel replied warmly. He appeared confused at the proffered hand, yet still took it and shook.
"Your teacher will be unimpressed," Marcus reminded her. Emma rolled her eyes, then gave a small curtsy. "Well done, darling," Marcus lauded his niece.
He turned to the two gentlemen he had brought from London. "My lords, you are welcome to my humble home."
He gestured to the driver of the carriage. The furniture that Marcus had spoken so highly about was lifted down from where it was strapped to the roof of the accompanying carriage and then brought up the steps. They entered the house after the mysterious piece.
"Is it our gift for Beatrice?" Emma bubbled with excitement.
"Indeed."
Emma turned to the new arrivals. "Have you seen it, my lords? Is it as splendid as my uncle says it is?"
Nathaniel shook his head. "Who is Beatrice?"
"Emma's music teacher," Marcus answered. "And the very reason I had to hurry home."
As if on queue, they heard a feminine voice coming from down the corridor. "Emma?"
The voice was unmistakable. Did he not, after all, spend most of his nights whipping her up from imagination? Chuck looked down at the floor in an effort to hide his expression. It would not do to react so violently, only because of a certain similarity to someone long gone.
"Blair," Chuck said under his breath.
For his part, Nathaniel's gaze slammed to his friend. Chuck slowly raised his head to look. It was as if his lungs were caught in a vise grip he could not escape. He could not see her because then his vision swam with tears. He saw the figure, faint and unrecognizable by sight, but his heart had stopped beating and he welcomed the sweet merciful hands of death.
"Who is that?" he whispered through lips suddenly to dry. Chuck swallowed, and even his deepest breaths could not sustain him. Chuck waited for a moment, to see that spark of recognition, to feel her arms around him when she did and she embraced him. Something inside, long dead, flickered with cold hope.
"My lords, this is Emma's music teacher."
"Beatrice," she provided. "And you have all stolen my pupil from me, just when she was starting to learn our new song."
Emma gave Marcus a proud grin. "Just you wait, uncle. I will play it for you yet." And then to Chuck's utter fascination, the fifteen-year-old twirled about with Lord Marcus guiding her hand. Softly, Emma sang, "The thirst that from the soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine. But might I of Jove's nectar cup—" Emma stammered, then raised panicked eyes towards her teacher. "But might I of Jove's nectar cup," she repeated.
Beatrice smiled in encouragement, and then finished softly for her, "I will not change for thine."
Chuck's heart thundered in his ears. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came.
"Are you well, my lord?" Beatrice asked softly, stunning him by how easily she said it, as if there was no recognition of a man she had lain with, promised her life to.
Chuck hastily brought up his handkerchief to his eyes. His throat itched to cry out that she was his, and he ached to encase her in his arms. "Dust from the road," he rasped. And then, when he put down the cloth, he could see her clearly, the same wonderful phantom that had haunted him and stopped. And there she stood, full of his child, her eyes smiling down at him. Her lovely deep brown hair was gathered at her nape in a modest chignon, and she was dressed in a simple house dress that could not compare to the humblest gown that Chuck had purchased for her. Yet he could not remember seeing her more beautiful than this. For a moment he wondered if in truth, he had died on the way, and this was the gate to heaven. "Beatrice?"
He stiffened when Marcus walked over to her and placed a kiss on her hand. "Go ahead," he told her, gesturing towards the furniture. "Unwrap it," Marcus urged. "It is my gift for you."
Chuck watched quietly as his Blair—and he would think of her no other way—assessed the covered gift. And then a servant handed her a pair of scissors. She cut the ties, and the cloth fell open to reveal a beautifully handcrafted crib. Her fingers traced the carvings on the wood. She raised teary eyes at Marcus. "My lord, it is breathtaking."
He had straightened at the sight of the gift. No one else should have the right to give something so personal for his child. He made his way to the wall, to stand beside his friend and lean against the white frame. A gust of wind could topple him.
"Beatrice is a lovely name," Chuck managed.
Blair gave him a faint smile. "Lord Marcus adores the works of Master Shakespeare, and he loves the independent woman, the quick-thinker and the sharp-tongued lady that Beatrice was."
"I am liberated," Marcus claimed.
Emma huffed, and Blair chuckled. "You are indeed, my lord."
It was Nathaniel who next spoke. "Lord Marcus chose the name? I do not understand." Chuck noted the tremulous breaths that Nathaniel took, and feared he would say anything that would arouse suspicion.
Marcus was unsuspecting still, and Chuck was glad. "It is a long and complicated story. We would regale you of it over supper." He walked over to Blair and asked, "How are you?"
Her breath hitched, and she turned to glance at Chuck uncomfortably before turning back to the earl. "The day draws near," she told him.
"And the dreams?"
Her voice dropped, and she turned her back on Chuck. "They haunt me still."
"Of course." Marcus nodded. "Emma, your teacher must rest before supper. Will you walk with her?"
With another puzzled look towards Chuck, the teacher made her way towards the steps. "Beatrice!" Chuck called. Blair stopped her ascent, then turned her head slightly, hiding her face yet showing that she was listening. It was the same exact angle she had when she realized he was behind her as she played the piano in her angel costume. "I wish to speak with the woman that Lord Marcus deems so strong to name her that."
"Perhaps later, my lord."
"Good. And then perhaps I would tell you about my vision of Beatrice."
Curiously, she turned around. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, and she did not know why. "What is your vision, my lord?"
And he looked at her, sorely tempted to tell her so he could take her back home where she deserved to be. "I think of Beatriće Portinari," he declared, waiting for a reaction.
"Dante's Beatri
e?" Marcus clarified. "Of Florence?" Blair gasped and stared at Marcus with parted lips. "Why ever would you think that, Lord Charles?"
When Blair turned to Chuck with furrowed brows, Chuck nodded. "I will be happy to tell you all about my Beatriće when you are rested, my lady."
And then she was gone. Chuck leaned his head back against the wall and took deep breaths. His knees trembled, and he feared that he would stumble.
"You are exhausted," Marcus observed of the two. "Let me show you to your rooms." He led the way up the steps.
tbc