Page 94 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Emmanuel stood and walked around the desk to stand before Anselm. He placed a hand on Anselm’s shoulder, his gaze unwavering.
“Anselm, I need you to listen to me. Truly listen.”
Anselm shook his head before looking into Emmanuel’s eyes. He felt pulled to him in that moment and gave a nod.
“Your father… he was a sick man. His mind was failing him in a way I would not wish on my worst enemy. And your mother’s death… it was an accident. A tragic, senseless accident. None of it was your fault?—”
“But, but I?—”
“It was not your fault.”
“I could have done better. I could have?—”
“You were a boy. You did what you had to do. But you cannot carry the weight of their misfortunes, of all the world’s misfortunes for that matter, as your sole responsibility. You cannot control every outcome, Anselm. You cannot prevent every sorrow. And you cannot punish yourself, or Marion, for a past that was not yours to command.”
Anselm stared at him.
Emmanuel squeezed his shoulder again, shaking him slightly as if trying to ward off a ghost.
“Do not throw away happiness, Anselm. So few have the luxury of knowing it. Do not sacrifice the very thing that could heal you because of a disease that was never yours. You deserve to be content.”
“I deserve?—”
“Fine, if not for you than for her. Marion deserves to be loved. Do not let your fear of losing control destroy the very life you are trying so desperately to protect.”
He paused, then sighed, before dropping his hand to his hip and placing it in his pocket.
“I have said what I came to say. Just promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“Think on it, my friend.”
Emmanuel turned and left. The door closed softly behind him. Anselm was once again alone in the silence but now the weight of Emmanuel’s words hung in the air and swirled around him.
Anselm sat there for a long moment in silence.. His past pressed on him, as well as the idea of a future. Then, with a sudden, guttural roar of frustration, he swept his arm across the desk. Books, papers, quills, and the decanter of brandy crashed to the floor. He stood and hurled his chair backward onto the floor. He was breathing heavily and his chest heaved.
A moment later, the study door opened cautiously. A familiar face peeked inside the room.
“Your Grace? Is everything… in order?” Mr. Lewis asked softly as he stood in the doorway.
He looked to the floor and with quiet efficiency, he moved to begin cleaning.
“Leave it!” Anselm barked. “Leave it, Lewis! And leave me be! I will ring for assistance if and when I require it.”
Mr. Lewis, having been with the family for many years, raised an eyebrow but did not fight. While he hesitated for a moment, he bowed.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said as he withdrew. “My apologies.”
Anselm stood amidst the wreckage of his desk. His anger deflated as he realized that he was as much of a mess as the floor. He knelt, slowly and picked up the books first. A heavy tome on economics, a treatise on Scottish law, a collectionof parliamentary debates. Then his fingers brushed against something softer, something out of place. He picked it up.
It was Verity’s book,The Highland Holiday. Its cover was slightly bent from the fall. He had started it, weeks ago, in a moment of rare idleness, and then dismissed the work after his wife caught him reading it.
He walked to the nearby sofa, sank onto its plush velvet cushions, and opened the book to the page where he had left off. His eyes scanned the words, then stopped because he was suddenly arrested by a passage that struck him.
“He had built his life with his bare hands, brick by brick. As a result, he was surrounded by walls, all of his own making. He believed that control was the only shield against the chaos of the world, as much as he believed in the Lord above.
But what good is a fortress, if it holds only solitude? And what is power, if it cannot protect the one thing truly worth losing?
