Page 19 of The Damsel
In the past month he’d given up altogether, even as the memories plagued both his waking hours and his dreams. As a result, he now walked about with a constant feeling of mounting pressure from someplace deep within. Yet, no matter what he did, he could never find relief from it.
The irony of it, was that he’d been so grateful for that night, for the way it had helped to offer him an escape from the reality of his heartbreak, his enduring loneliness. Now, he hardly ever thought of Daphne at all, which ought to have been a blessing. News of her unexpected elopement had spread far and wide, whisperings of what had led to her union with Hartmoor making the rounds in London drawing rooms and country manor parlors alike. But, aside from the periodic twinge in his chest at the thought of his lost love, Robert found himself growing increasingly indifferent toward what he’d first thought of as a crushing loss.
Now, a different woman dominated his thoughts, and try as he might, he could not free his mind from the snare of her trap.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stanley.”
He blinked, finding that he’d entered the house and come face to face with the housekeeper. Concern knit her brow as she studied him —a look he was growing used to. He was different now, and it seemed everyone around him could sense it. The usual sunny smiles and amiable nature that had once been a trademark of sorts for him were now distinctly absent.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Godfrey. Have you seen Mother?”
Before he made his way into the study to answer the correspondence he’d let pile up on his desk, he ought to look in on her. Things had been a bit strained between them since he’d gone off to London to go after Daphne.
“Yours is a fool’s errand,” she had warned him. “That woman is damaged goods and is not fit to become your future baroness. In truth, she never has been.”
“You don’t know her,” he had argued. “She’s a good woman … the woman I love. You’ll see. When I return, it will be to announce our betrothal.”
Of course, once he returned empty-handed and heartbroken she’d been all-too happy to declare that she'd been right the entire time, though she did wrap it in the guise of sympathy.
“My poor, sweet boy,” she had crooned, reaching out to cup his face with a gnarled hand. “I told you she was never good enough for you. She couldn’t possibly be if she cannot see what a wonderful husband you will make.”
He’d brushed off her hand and walked away, refusing to give in to her constant need to coddle and fawn over him. Most times, he tried to be understanding of her feelings. He was her only remaining child, after all, and had become the recipient for all the love, concern, and meddling one mother contained inside her for four sons. But, he hadn’t had the patience to endure it, and found even now that his forbearance began to run shorter and shorter.
“I believe she is visiting with your father,” the housekeeper replied.
“Very good, thank you.”
Breezing past her, he took the stairs two at a time, his body still thrumming with the excess energy that seemed to take up every crevice and corner of his being. The ride hadn’t been enough. He needed some other way to occupy himself, but for the life of him could not figure out what to do. Perhaps riding out again would help. It had been some weeks since he’d visited with tenants, and he supposed he ought to ensure that the repair of several cottage roofs was going as it should. His father had always been an attentive landowner, an easy task considering that theirs was a small holding. While the baron had not yet died, the task of ensuring the people depending upon the estate for their welfare were taken care of now fell to him.
The door to his father’s chamber hung ajar, so he pushed it open, peering inside to find the baron abed reading, his mother seated in an armchair nearby with an embroidery hoop in her lap.
He’d seen them this way so often over the years, it proved difficult to imagine entering any room in this home to find his mother there without his father. They were quite a pair, his mother petite with a rounded figure, his father’s slender frame having gone rail thin due to illness. His dark hair, and her wheat blond had both gone completely white, with his father’s bald pate showing through the thinning wisps on top. The baron's dark eyes still twinkled with cheer, despite his weakened and ravaged body, though his mother went about with a perpetual scowl marring her face, twin lines permanently etched between her eyebrows due to her furrowing them.
The two had lived through the trials of youth, marriage, birth, and death together, settling into age and growing into one another like two trees with their roots entangled underground. It seemed the only thing they would not do together was die. While his father’s health had been declining for years now, his mother remained as healthy as ever.
The floorboards creaked as he entered, the sound capturing their attention. His father glanced up from his book, eying Robert over the rim of his spectacles, his cheeks wobbling as he offered a smile. Even so small a task seemed to require a great deal of strength, and he could not maintain the expression for long.
“Well, good afternoon,” his father said as Robert approached the bed. “I see you’ve been out enjoying the fine weather.”
His mother glanced up and took in his attire and the state of his mussed hair with a disdainful sniff. “Still far too damp for my liking, and the air still holds a bit of a chill. You ought not go traipsing about under such conditions, Robert. You could fall prey to fever or pneumonia or some other such thing.”
“Leave the boy alone, Rosie,” his father admonished. “He is young and healthy. He ought to be enjoying his life, not cooped up in this old house with us. Did you have a good ride, son?”
Before he could open his mouth to reply, his mother had risen from her chair and put her embroidery hoop aside. Approaching the bed, she began fussing over the baron, pulling the bedclothes up to his chest and tucking him tight, brushing the meager strands of hair back from his forehead and then pressing the back of her hand there to check for clamminess or fever.
“Really, William, you mustn’t encourage such behavior. My Robert isn’t like those reckless fools with their carriage races, and over-imbibing and wenching and the like. He’s a good boy, aren’t you,
Robert?”
“Of course, Mother,” he murmured, a force of habit.
He would always do his best to keep her anxiety at bay, conceding to how demanding and overbearing the loss of her sons had made her. His father did the same each day, submitting to her coddling and bearing it all in silence. His affection for her allowed him to see that it made her feel better to know the people around her were cared for and safe. She clung to them because they were all she had left.
If she ever found out about his night with Cassandra, she’d probably suffer an apoplexy. The thought brought a slight smirk to his lips as he wondered if she’d still think him such a ‘good boy’ if she knew he’d enjoyed having a woman tie him to a bed and straddle his face.
“Robert, have you heard a word I’ve said?” she snapped, pulling him out his reverie.
He blinked and shook his head, giving her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. What was that?”
