Chapter Thirty-Eight – A Dagger’s Hilt
At the sound of her voice, Tristan almost toppled over as blind panic clutched his heart. What was she doing here?
“Tristan, I found your letter,” his wife called as she slowly approached them, her hands lifted, her eyes fixed on his face. “Please do not do this. I cannot lose you.”
His gut twisted as he saw the fear in her eyes, knowing only too well the pain it brought. “Beth, please go home. You should not−”
“What are you doing here?” his uncle demanded as he stepped back, and Tristan noted with a sense of relief that the pistol swung back to point at him. “Who else knows?” As his uncle’s eyes narrowed, he turned his head, glancing around the clearing.
“No one,” his wife immediately assured him, her feet never ceasing their approach. “I woke up this morning to find a letter from my husband, saying that his cousin had challenged him to a duel.” As her voice constricted, she shook her head. “This is madness. Please, I beg you, do not do this.”
Stepping forward, Tristan met her eyes. “Go home, Beth!” Then he turned to his uncle. “Please. She has nothing to do with this. Her death will not serve you in any way.”
His uncle remained quiet for a moment as his eyes moved from Tristan to Beth and then to his son. “What if she’s already with child?”
“She’s not!” Tristan replied without hesitation, understanding in the blink of an eye why his uncle would care and why he had so strongly advised−or rather demanded−that Tristan not share his wife’s bed. “I have not bedded her in weeks.”
His uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Are you lying to me?” he demanded, and the pistol bobbed up and down as his hands shook with barely controlled anger. “If you’re lying, your title will go to your son.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head. “No, I cannot risk it. The title, the estate, the fortune, all of it is mine.” He glanced at Matthew. “It’s ours.”
Stepping back, Tristan’s cousin shook his head. “I never wanted the title, Father, and I certainly do not want it like this: acquired by means of murder. We are a family. How can you even suggest this?”
“Family? Puh!” Tristan’s uncle spat, a grotesque sneer distorting his face. “What good is family if all it does is make demands without any compensation in return? All my life, I’ve taken care of my brother and his finances. His finances! Not mine! And only because I was not the firstborn. Because of my brother’s incompetence, I worked myself to the bone, handling an estate that would never be mine. He got everything, and I got nothing. Is that fair?” he screamed, his head turning dark red, and his hands began to tremble even more.
As his uncle’s frantic voice echoed in his ears, Tristan experienced a strange sense of recognition, and yet, no specific memory surfaced. Rather it was a sense of fear and dread that washed over him. Something he recognised deep in his heart. Something that felt familiar as though he had experienced it before, and yet, he could not quite recall it. Was this how his father had sounded when he had been drunk and angry? Often had he heard his sister speak of their father in that way. And yet, he had been too little to remember. Still, maybe deep down, his father’s anger had sunk its talons into him, forever marking him.
Forcing his thoughts back to the here and now, Tristan swallowed as his mind raced. Somehow, they had to disarm his uncle before anyone got hurt. Shifting his gaze from his wife, he met his cousin’s eyes.
With his hands balled into fists, Matthew stood rooted to the spot, and yet, there was a quiver in his body that betrayed his desire to act. His eyes were narrow and watchful as they met Tristan’s before they dropped to the ground not too far from where Tristan stood. Following his cousin’s gaze, Tristan spotted the second pistol almost hidden in the grass.
Once more he looked up and found Matthew nodding at him in confirmation. Giving a quick nod of his own head, Tristan turned to look at his wife. Judging from the look in her eyes, she had seen their silent conversation.
Holding her gaze, Tristan looked at her imploringly before dropping his gaze, hoping she understood what he wanted her to do. The moment Matthew would draw his father’s attention and Tristan would dive for the second pistol, she was to drop to the ground where she would not pose a target any longer.
Forcing his eyes from her, Tristan drew in a deep breath, then once more nodded at his cousin.
“Father, this is madness!” Matthew spoke up, his eyes fixed on his father as he approached him with a quiet confidence that Tristan could not help but envy in that moment. “Give me that pistol and have this be done with!”
As his uncle turned to face his son, Tristan lunged forward, hands reaching for the second pistol hidden in the grass. From the corner of his eye, he saw his wife almost disappear in the tall grass, and his heart beat a little easier.
Colliding with the hard ground, Tristan rejoiced as his hand closed around the smooth surface of the pistol. Quickly, he settled his grip and rolled over, the muzzle pointed at his uncle, who stared at him with open-mouthed shock.
However, the moment only lasted a second or two before cold hatred returned to the older man’s eyes. Without hesitation, he turned from his son and swung toward Tristan, his finger tightening on the trigger.
In that moment, Tristan simply acted. He did not have time to weigh his options. He could not even decipher the many thoughts that rushed through his head. All he knew for certain was that he had to stop his uncle.
Thus, he pulled the trigger.
A soft pop reached his ears, not the deafening sound he had expected.
And although his uncle stopped in his tracks, momentarily startled, no bullet wound showed anywhere on his body.
No gunpowder! That thought suddenly raced to the forefront of Tristan’s mind, and in that moment, he finally understood how badly his uncle wanted him dead. To act as his second and then not to put gunpowder into the pistol meant for him! To orchestrate such a charade had been beyond imagining! But no longer!
Staring up at his uncle, Tristan swallowed as a satisfied sneer lit up the man’s face. His hand rose, aiming the pistol at Tristan. “You deserve this!” he snarled. “You were never worthy!”
The breath caught in Tristan’s throat, and his gaze shifted to his wife, who sat in the tall grass, tears streaming down her face. Then she scrambled to her feet, and Tristan could only hope that his uncle would kill him before she could interfere and draw the bullet onto herself.
However, it was not his wife, but his cousin, who then shot forward, his arms reaching for the pistol as he flung himself at his father.
Startled, his eyes widening, Tristan’s uncle spun around, the pistol in his hand moving along.
A moment later, a shot rang out, and this time the sound truly was deafening in the soft morning air.
Immediately, Matthew was flung backward and a groan tore from his lips before he hit the ground.
Staring at his cousin almost hidden in the tall grass, Tristan could not believe what had just happened. Then he looked up at his uncle and knew that he felt the same way. With wide eyes, he stared at his son’s still body, and the blood drained from his face, his cheeks suddenly pale. Then his jaw tightened and his lips pressed into a tight line as his head turned from his son to Tristan. “You!” he snarled. “You did this!”
As his uncle advanced on him, Tristan scrambled backwards, his gaze fixed on the pistol in his uncle’s hand. Once more, it rose; its muzzle directed at him, and a moment later, his uncle pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Shaking his head, Tristan felt air rush from his lungs in relief as he reminded himself that the pistol carried no more bullets. Cursing, he sat up, knowing he ought to have realised that sooner. However, the moment, he tried to scramble to his feet, his uncle charged him, the pistol held over his head as though he planned to bash in his skull.
All sense, all reason had left the man, and the eyes that glared down at Tristan held all the madness Tristan had always feared would claim him as well. As his uncle came toward him, a murderous gleam in his eyes, Tristan stared at the man who had been the only father he had ever known, almost mesmerised by the sight before his eyes. Was this how his mother had felt the moment his father had turned against her? Was this how she had felt before he had killed her?
Stunned, experiencing a strange emotional void, Tristan found his heart felt no fear or pain, no anger or regret. It was as though a strange sense of curiosity came over him, to know something about his mother after spending all his life wondering about the man his father had been.
Only then a shrill scream pierced his ears, and his head jerked sideways.
Back on her feet, his wife stood in the clearing not too far off, her eyes wide as she stared at him, at his uncle as he charged toward him, her mouth open in fear as she lunged forward.
A soft breeze whirred past Tristan’s head, followed by a soft thud.
Turning his gaze back to his uncle, he found the man’s mouth hung open as he stared down at his chest. The pistol dropped to the ground, and his arms fell to his sides. Then his knees buckled, and he sank into the high grass.
Tristan swallowed, unable to move his gaze from the dying man before him. However, it was not the blood that seeped into his shirt and coat, staining them bright red, that held him transfixed, nor was it the look of resignation that came to his uncle’s eyes, but the familiar wood grain of the dagger’s hilt.
“Henrietta,” he whispered as tears came to his eyes. Then he turned his head, his heart thudding with a new hope, and his eyes searched the edge of the clearing framed by tall standing trees.
At first, he could not see anything but browns and greens reaching into the morning sky. Then he wiped his hands over his eyes, and suddenly, some of the colours moved.
Dressed in a dark green riding habit, her face flushed, she strode toward him, her eyes narrowed and fixed on the man slowly disappearing into the grass behind him. As she moved, her stride long and measured, her bright blond hair gently swaying in the morning breeze, its ends brushing over her shoulders as it apparently had been cut significantly since he’d last seen her.
A smile came to his face then, and Tristan realised how much he had missed her. “Henrietta,” he whispered once more, and finally, her eyes turned to him.