Page 3 of The Damsel
Robert had nearly buckled under the weight of the crushing grief —his own, as well as his mother’s. But, he’d held firm and clung to her, eyes stinging as he tried to make sense of this. But, it didnotmake sense. Jonas had been a force of nature, as brave and fearless as they came. It did not seem possible for him to cease existing in this world. And for there to be no body, no evidence of his demise … it was nonsensical. Glancing up at his father, he found that the baron looked old, his face weathered and drawn. His father was not a young man anymore, but the losses of Andrew and Jonas had only quickened the process. Like Robert, he seemed intent upon remaining stoic for the baroness, who wept as if some part of her had been ripped out, too.
“Perhaps it is a misunderstanding,” he had managed, his voice hoarse from the sobs he contained. “Someone might be mistaken about what has happened.”
His tone had turned pleading, as if the son in him needed her to tell him everything would be fine. He wanted her to comfort him for once, to tell him that of course Jonas could not possibly be dead.
“Oh, I pray you are right, Robert. God, please don’t let it be true!”
Time proved Robert wrong, as his father’s journey to London and a few queries turned up the truth.The Intrepidhad run afoul of a storm and dragged its seamen into a watery grave. The splintered remains had been found by another Royal Navy vessel, and its crew had identified the lost ship by the lettering along a piece of its leftover hull.
From that day forward, a dark cloud seemed to hang over the Stanley estate, as if Jonas had been the sun and there could be no light now that he was gone. William, who'd spent the summer in London with friends from Oxford, had returned home upon receiving the news. In the fall, he would have to return, and Robert was scheduled to leave for another term at Eton. His mother spoke often of keeping him at home and hiring a tutor.
“I cannot bear to be without my little boy,” she would say while clinging to him, tears wetting her face.
“He must have his education like the rest of them, Rosie,” the baron would argue.
His mother would try to plead her case. A tutor would do to see him properly educated, and he would be at home, where nothing awful could happen to him. When she was not worried that he might go to Eton and never return, she fussed over him like never before.
“Robert, do get out of those boots and put on dry stockings. You could catch a chill!”
“Robert, do not eat so fast, love, you could choke to death!”
“Robert, no running on the stairs! You will break your neck and I would never survive it. Is that what you want?”
Each time she warned him of some new danger, guilt would assail him over having worried her.
“I am sorry, Mother,” he would murmur, then tailor his behavior to offer her peace of mind.
He never ran in the house, he always promptly warmed himself after coming in from the rain, and whenever he felt the urge to cough, he left the room so she could not hear him. Leaving for Eton made things easier. When he was not at home, he did not have to be reminded every day that Jonas and Andrew were dead. He could make friends and dedicate his time to his studies. Letters from home came filled with cautions from his mother, of course. She worried that he might not be eating enough, that he could not rest well sharing a room with three other boys, or that the classrooms were too drafty. Every time he wrote back, he would fill his letters with reassurances, doing his best to soothe her from afar. Yes, he had plenty to eat every day and had even grown quite a bit since the last time she’d seen him. He slept fine and liked the boys he roomed with. There was plenty of coal for their fires, so no, she did not have to worry he would freeze.
Yet again, life arranged itself into some semblance of order. When he and William came home on holiday, they spent as much time together as possible—partly to escape their mother’s incessant worrying, but mostly because death had bonded them like never before. The first son, and the fourth who had now become the heir’s spare.
“There are only two of us now,” William would say when overtaken by melancholy. “We must always stick together, Robert. No matter what. We cannot let petty squabbles come between us. Andrew would not want it, and neither would Jonas.”
Were Andrew here, he might have pointed out how inevitable it was for brothers to fight. Jonas would have joked that William was being bossy—as usual. Feeling the deep chasm of two dead brothers between them, Robert had done neither of those things.
He had merely nodded his agreement and murmured, “Yes, you are right.”
The holiday before William’s final spring term, he had repeated the sentiment to Robert for the last time. They'd stood on the front steps of the house, their breaths turning white on the winter air. Inside, his mother played the pianoforte while a gathering of neighbors joined her and the baron in their favorite Christmas songs.
“You’ll be off for university soon,” William had said, giving him a smile. “I suppose when you return, you might join me in London. It’s a ripping good time, you know.”
Robert knew only what William had told him, having never lived anywhere except home and Eton. “I suppose. We shall be two young bachelors about Town, chasing after the debutantes. Though, you ought to be wed by then, yes?”
William had chuckled at that. “God, I hope not.”
Robert, who had discovered within himself a sense of romantic whimsy, had shrugged. “I do not know. Finding the right woman to wed might not be so bad. A love match … that’s what I would want.”
His brother had nudged his shoulder and laughed all the harder. “Oh, Robert … you were born with stars in your eyes, just like Mother always says. I pity the debutantes of London once you’re old enough to be on the prowl. They will not stand a chance, not a single one of them!”
He’d smiled at that, studying his brother from the corner of his eye. While everyone thought him the ‘pretty’ brother, William was tall, with a broad chest and shoulders, and merry eyes. He could never be called anything but handsome.
“I hardly think they stand a chance around you, either.”
William had frowned, dipping his head so he stared at his feet. “I have no interest in them."
“In debutantes?”
“In women,” he’d whispered, glancing over his shoulder as if to ensure no one was about to overhear. “I never have been. My tastes are … different.”
