Page 2 of Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta
Ewan’s brown eyes flashed with indignation.
“Perhaps the household should do as I wish and maintain their distance. I would not want to infect others with my trivial grief after all. As I said, I was perfectly well alone here before you opted to interrupt.”
Phineas frowned, reaching to accept the glass from Vernon as the old servant placed the drink in his hands.
“Ewan, please, be reasonable,” Phineas grunted, casting his glass aside without so much as a sip. “It has been quite nearly a year since—”
“Father, I implore you again not to dredge this to the surface today. I have not the disposition for such things.”
“It is not I who carries this heavily, Ewan! Every step you take, every look you give—they are laced with a deep sorrow which seems apparently endless. Frankly, we are at our wits’ end with you.”
Ewan gritted his ivory teeth together, willing himself not to say something which would ignite an argument with his father. There was little he could say that would simply make the matter disappear.
“Ewan, you must say something,” the Duke insisted. “I will not have you moping about the manor. It is destroying you and I long for the witty son I raised, not this…”
Phineas waved his hand as though he was at a loss for words as if Ewan was a vagabond who had fallen into the manor quite by mistake. The Marquess bristled, unhappy to be reminded he was not the same man he had been. He did not need to be told. He knew he lost a part of himself, a part which he would never get back.
Certainly not with an unsupportive father and begrudging household. Would they rather I leave so that I take my cloud of despair away from the sunny walls of Nightingale?
“Forgive me, Father,” the younger man retorted with uncharacteristic causticness. “Does my sadness affect Mother’s galas?”
“There is no need to be belligerent, Ewan,” the Duke growled, his patience expired. “I have come to you as an ally, not an enemy. Your mother and I only have your best interests at heart. You know she refrains from hosting social functions, lest the jovial spirit affect you.”
Ewan could not suppress the grunt of dubiousness which he released loudly and rudely.
“How kind of you, Father,” he intoned. “Your concern is noted—as always.”
There was a long silence, but Ewan did not bother to look at his father. He could envision Phineas’ reproving look in his mind’s eye. Ewan had come to know it well.
It seemed a lifetime ago that the men had shared a bond stronger than the hardest of diamonds. The Duke and his son had been inseparable whether in business or social affairs, their conversations light hearted and never burdened with the pain that plagued them now. On occasion, when images of Patricia did not plague him, Ewan thought of the hunting trips which had once been the tradition of the Peterborough men and it filled him with a different kind of longing.
Matters are different now,Ewan thought firmly, dismissing the wave of regret in his gut.I am not the same boy who idolized his father. Any sense of wonderment died with Patricia…and our son.
Ewan jumped as a warm hand closed around his shoulder and he looked up toward his father in surprise. He could not recall the last time his father had touched him. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had had contact of any kind with another person.
“You will persevere, Ewan. You are a Clark. Our bloodline is strong and proud.”
“And if I do not?” Ewan replied, misery tinging his question. “What then, Father?”
He was unsure if it was meant to sound as plaintive as it did, but he could not retract the words once they had been spoken.
“You shall,” Phineas vowed. “Your mother and I will not see you fail.”
A lump formed in Ewan’s throat and he blinked several times, deeply concerned that tears would fill his eyes, humiliating him further before the Duke.
“I will retire to my chambers,” Ewan said abruptly, rising and shaking his father’s comforting hand from his body.
“We have not yet had supper,” Phineas proclaimed. “I will not have you failing to eat above all else.”
“I will have Anna bring something to my room.”
“Ewan…”
Yet Ewan did not permit his father to speak again, his long legs taking him from the parlor toward the center stairs and away from the reminder that there was a terrible reality about him.
It was much easier for the Marquess to lose himself in the memory of his late wife, the musical timbre of her voice, the guileless blue of her eyes. He wished that his parents would leave him be but lately, it seemed impossible.
He entered his spacious apartment, closing the door firmly in his wake before moving toward the fireplace. The cold had seeped into the belly of the manor, slowly like death’s stealthy hand. Summer had gone before anyone had truly taken note and all which remained was the reminder that the anniversary of Patricia’s passing loomed directly ahead.
