Chapter Four – Cursed
The moment Tristan left his uncle’s house, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter, and yet, his heart continued to ache as it had for most of his life. Although his uncle berated him at every opportunity−just or unjust−Tristan still feared the loss of the only family he had ever known. So, he continued to sup at his uncle’s house despite the hateful words that were flung at his head.
After all, without them, he would be alone. And wasn’t that worse?
Walking down the deserted pavement, Tristan closed his eyes for an instant, remembering how his sister had always crawled into his bed when they had been little. Every night, she had come to hold him, stroking his head and whispering in his ear until he had fallen asleep.
Henrietta.
Again, Tristan’s heart ached, and he tried to remember how long it had been since he’d last seen her. It had been months if he recalled correctly, remembering the disappointment in her eyes as she had accused him of reckless behaviour, not unlike their uncle.
It had broken his heart to hear those words out of her mouth, and he had left that day and not returned.
And now it was too late.
Only a few weeks ago, he had received a letter from his uncle, informing him that they were headed to Scotland to see his sister married and that she asked him not to come.
Did she truly think of him as their uncle did? Had she not always stood by his side? Loved him no matter what? How had this happened?
Lifting his head, Tristan found himself outside of White’s and a frown settled on his face. How had he gotten here? He couldn’t even recall walking in this direction.
A shiver went down his back. Had it been the same for his father? Before he had lost his mind?
“Elton,” a familiar voice called, but Tristan flinched nonetheless. “Headed inside?” Giving him a pat on the back, Lord Tellington grinned at him. “You look forlorn, my friend.” Then he looked him up and down. “Do not tell me you’ve been robbed again?” Chuckling, his friend shook his head. “Although that would win me a nice little sum.”
Tristan sighed, returning Tellington’s smile wearily. “I’m sorry to disappoint, my friend.”
Tellington shrugged. “Well, I suppose it’s only a matter of time,” he laughed. “I’m certain it’ll happen again sooner or later.”
“If I didn’t know any better,” Tristan scoffed, trying to keep his voice light, “I’d think you orchestrated the whole thing to win.”
Again, Tellington laughed, holding his belly as tears brimmed in his eyes. “Quite an amusing thought, old friend. I’d consider it if I believed it necessary.”
“But you do not,” Tristan mumbled glumly, only too aware of the bets held at White’s about when the next misfortune would befall him.
“Not in the least.” Placing a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, Tellington shrugged. “I’m afraid you’re cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“After everything that’s happened, can you truly blame us for thinking so?” Tellington asked, looking aghast. “No, if it had only been your parents’ murder, I would not say a word. But considering the countless times, you yourself were snatched from the jaws of death, I’m afraid there’s no other conclusion. The Grim Reaper is coming for you, my friend, and he always gets what he comes for.” For a moment, Tellington stared at him, then he suddenly burst out laughing, leaning forward and slapping his thigh.
Tristan swallowed, a forced smile on his face as he wondered what Tellington would say if he knew the truth. If he knew that his parents had not been murdered, or at least not his father. If he knew that his father had been the one who had killed his own wife in a drunken stupor…and then himself.
Would Tellington still be laughing? Would he be wary of Tristan, wondering if the same madness that had driven his father to killing his own wife would one day claim Tristan as well? Would he look at him with caution?
“Considering how often you’ve cheated death,” Tellington continued on, obviously unable to see how deeply his words affected Tristan, “you truly are a lucky sod. After all, you’re still alive.”
Only because of Derek, Tristan reminded himself, thinking of his closest friend who had relentlessly followed Tristan like a shadow these past few years, pulling him out of one scrape after another. To this day, Tristan had no idea how his friend always knew when he needed him. But he had long since thought that even though he could not see him about, Derek might still be nearby, watching.
He was an odd fellow, his friend. More than anything, he hated to be the focus of attention−good or bad−and was most comfortable when people did not even notice him. Often, he appeared like a shadow: there one moment and then gone the next, an ability that had served him well in the war and had won him fame and glory−to Derek’s great displeasure−as well as the title of a baron.
“Are you coming inside?” Tellington asked again, gesturing up the stairs.
For a moment, Tristan hesitated, knowing that joining his friends and their mockery−as harmless as it was intended−never left him unaffected. His mood would darken, and liquor would flow, and then…something would happen that he couldn’t quite understand or remember afterwards.
Sometimes it was harmless, like a drunken night with his friends or waking up the next morning in the bed of a woman he’d never seen before.
However, every now and then, it would lead him into danger…and he could not afford that, especially tonight.
And yet, Tristan followed his friend inside, unable to return to the echo of an empty house, dark and full of ghosts of his past.
What he wanted most of all, what he dreamed of at night as well as during the day, was a family of his own. A wife who knew him at his best as well as at his worst and loved him all the same. A daughter he could spoil. A son he could take fishing.
A family he could call his own, who looked at him not with apprehension or disappointment, but with love instead.
Would he ever have a home?
Every day that dream seemed to slip farther and farther out of his grasp, and Tristan didn’t know what he could do to change that, nor did he think he had the strength.
Maybe it was a curse.
Maybe he was doomed to follow in his father’s footsteps.
Maybe he was exactly the kind of man his uncle believed him to be.
Maybe.