Chapter 13
Thomas continued to ignore his brother’s existence for the next few months, despite the fact that he had seen some great changes in him. Pierce no longer seemed to seek his father’s approval in everything he did, and it had struck Thomas that he had lost interest in a good deal of life’s activities.
Penrose Carlton, for his part, seemed not to have noticed the change in either of his sons. He paid Thomas no more heed than he had ever done, often reminding him of the time he had described himself and Catherine as the afterthoughts.
But what had been surprising to Thomas was the fact that their father had not noticed the great change in Pierce either. He had not seen the cessation of the arrogance and self-satisfaction that Pierce had worn like a suit of armour for so long.
But even though Thomas had recognized changes in his brother, even understood that what he was witnessing was largely remorse, still, he could not forgive him. His own pain was so great and showed no sign of abating. It had been eight months or more, but his heart felt as raw as it had done on the morning he had kissed his beloved Catherine goodbye forever and darted away from the Barford estate before the sun came up.
How they had cried as they embraced, becoming soaked in each other’s tears. Thomas had known almost from the first that he had loved Catherine Ambrose, but he had never realized until the moment of their parting just how much.
Those last, terrible moments were all that Thomas could see when Pierce tried to speak with him. It did not matter that Pierce had motives other than to hurt his brother because, in the end, that was all Pierce had achieved. Had he kept quiet, it was likely that neither the Duke nor the Earl would have been any the wiser.
And so it was that Thomas, heading out once more to Stromlyn Lake, found himself pursued by the brother who would simply not give up.
“Thomas, I wish you would not go to Stromlyn Lake every day. You will never mend if you do not change things.” Pierce was talking sense, whether or not he had a right to speak it.
“I shall do as I choose. It is none of your affair.”
“I do not ask for nor expect your forgiveness, Thomas, but can we at least try to be friends? If only a little?”
“You were never keen to be my friend before.” Thomas walked into the stable to see if his horse was any closer to being saddled.
Pierce followed him in, and it was clear that one of the stable hands was saddling his horse also. Thomas let go an angry snort, thinking it likely that Pierce was going to follow him again. It was something he attempted from time to time in a bid to have Thomas speak to him.
Well, Thomas would show him. The moment his own horse was suitably saddled, Thomas would tear off out of the estate and leave his brother far behind.
Why would he not let it be?
“We have been friends in the past, Thomas. When we were boys we …”
“We are not boys now.” Thomas cut him off.
“I know,” Pierce said and fell silent as he looked helplessly around him.
Thomas knew that cutting Pierce off like that would interrupt his flow of speech. It would be some moments before he would be able to come up with something more suitable to say, for he did not have Thomas’ own quick wit and intelligence.
Over the years, Thomas had used that to his advantage when the brothers were arguing, and yet now he felt a stab of guilt over it as he stood in the stables staring at him. Pierce had spent the better part of eight months trying to atone for what he had done, and Thomas had fended off every attempt.
But still, Thomas could not let go of his resentment, and seeing that his horse was ready, he scrambled up onto his back and charged out of the stable, leaving Pierce to stare after him open-mouthed.
Thomas did not slow his horse at all, cantering through the estate and out into the countryside beyond. He tore down the track which headed in the direction of the lake, the breeze lifting his thick red-brown hair as he went.
It was the fastest he had ridden for some time, and there was something so freeing in it that he did not want to ever slow down again. But his horse was blowing hard, and Thomas had already begun to regret forcing the poor creature to run hard without warning and maintain it.
And so, Thomas slowed his horse to a comfortable trot, and now that it was safe to do so, he turned his head to look back the way he had come.
When he saw Pierce taking a shortcut through the fields instead of following him along the track, Thomas let out a noisy sigh.
“For God’s sake, go home,” he said, heard by none but his horse. “Just leave me to my anger.”
Thomas considered setting off again at speed but suddenly realized there was no point. Pierce was not going to give up.
Thomas turned back to concentrate on his trotting horse when a feeling of dread seemed to take him over. Something was wrong. Pierce was cutting through walled fields, and he was going far too fast. If he did not slow, he would come upon the high dry-stone wall at the top of the first field, and there was no telling what his horse would do. But no, surely Pierce knew what he was heading towards.
Thomas, feeling a dreadful cold prickling at the back of his neck, stopped his horse altogether and turned him around to face back towards his approaching brother.
Pierce was still flying along, and Thomas, forgetting all that stood between them at that moment, began to shout and wave his arms. He wanted so desperately to warn his brother that he was almost frozen in fear.
Pierce showed no sign of slowing down, and Thomas could only watch helplessly from the track that ran alongside the field. With the wall too high and no run-up for his horse from the track that would give them any hope of clearing it, there was little else Thomas could do but yell and wave his arms.
When tragedy struck, the world seemed to slow down horribly. Thomas watched with horror as Pierce’s horse balked some distance before the wall, as Thomas had suspected it would.
Pierce was thrown so easily from the saddle that the whole thing seemed quite graceful in the beginning; the horse had stopped dead, and Pierce kept going. He arced through the air, and Thomas prayed that he would clear the wall.
But Pierce lost the grace and height very quickly, and the world seemed to speed up once again as he was smashed, head first, against the wall.
Thomas cried out, and seeing no way to get his horse into the field, jumped down from its back and clambered over the wall himself. He dropped down on the other side, landing heavily and twisting his ankle painfully. He half ran, half limped his way across the field, crying out to his brother as he went.
“Pierce! Pierce!” He called again and again, never once receiving an answer.
Before he was but halfway across the field, Thomas was drenched in sweat. His shirt clung to him, and he swiped sweat from his eyes with the cuff of the old brown tailcoat he always wore for riding.
When he reached Pierce, he could see that he was motionless. His breathing was laboured and sporadic, and Thomas felt like a child again, a young boy who did not know what to do.
Fear overtook him, and tears filled his eyes as he looked helplessly down at his brother. He dropped to his knees and touched his drip-white face but could get no response whatsoever.
Knowing that he could not just stay there staring and hoping Pierce would come around, Thomas rose and snatched the reins of his brother’s horse. Struggling harder than he had ever done in his life, Thomas pulled Pierce up finally and laid him face down over the horse’s saddle. There was no other way to manage it, and that was all there was to it.
If he left Pierce there, he would die without a doubt. More than anything, Thomas wanted to get him back to Shawcross and make him comfortable whilst the physician was sent for.
At first, he walked on foot, leading his brother’s horse slowly along. But he could not bear the slowness, feeling the valuable, vital minutes slipping away, so he clambered up awkwardly behind Pierce’s drooping, horribly still body.
It was near to impossible to ride the horse from so far back, but Thomas leaned forward, straining every muscle in his body, and managed to get the poor frightened creature moving again.
Still, he could not go fast, for fear that Pierce would be dislodged and slide off the saddle, but it was certainly quicker than walking alongside had been.
“We will be home soon, Pierce. You just hold on, alright? Do you hear me? You just hold on.” Thomas heard his voice crack as the emotions seized him once again. The weight of the last months seemed to almost crush him, but in a very different way.
It was not the pain of losing Catherine this time, but the loss of the last eight months with a brother who had tried time and time again to apologize. If only he had known where it would all end up, Thomas knew he would have done things differently. But that was the wonderfully vile thing about hindsight; it had perfect vision.
Suddenly, Thomas had an image of the two of them playing with bows and arrows that the old stable master had made for them. The arrows were purposefully blunt and harmless, but that had not lessened the boys’ excitement at all as they chased each other all over the estate, inexpertly loosing off the round-ended arrows in all directions.
They had played until it was almost dark, and their governess was fractious with agitation. It was one of those childhood days that was so wonderful and seemed to go on forever. A day that would always stand out, even when they were old men.
They had been friends.
Before their mother had died and their father’s concentrated influence had changed Pierce into a proud young man who followed his father blindly into arrogance, they had been friends.
But Thomas realized that even after that time, they had never particularly been enemies. They had aggravated one another and mistrusted one another on occasion, it was true.
But that had not been the sum total of their relationship as young men. There had still been laughter, although it was true that it was very occasional, and they had continued to attend events together and converse without too much trouble, especially when out of their father’s company. They just were not as close as they had been. Without their mother’s countering influence, Pierce had been allowed to develop as his father would have him. But was that really Pierce’s fault? After all, he was the heir and could hardly escape the determined attention of their father.
Perhaps being the afterthought had been a far luckier position.
By the time Thomas reached the front of Shawcross Hall, he felt utterly shattered. He called out for help, his voice coming in ragged gasps, and was quickly joined by several of his father’s footmen and a host of young men from the stables.
His father marched down the great stone steps of the hall and surveyed the scene there coolly. Thomas studied his face for a moment and could see nothing there; not fear, not love, nothing.
“What is all this?” he said in his customary bluff manner.
“Pierce was thrown from his horse,” Thomas said and fought hard against tears again; they would do him no good in the face of his father. “He hit a wall hard. He is very badly hurt.” Thomas looked back to where the footmen were gently trying to lift Pierce from the agitated horse.
“Damn fool, what was he playing at? He needs to be more careful,” the Duke went on.
“Father, did you not hear me? Pierce is very badly hurt.” He turned away from his father and approached one of the stable hands. “Please, will you ride into the village and call upon Doctor Harper. Tell him what has happened and that we need him immediately.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the young man said and set off at speed for the stables.
The footmen had finally lifted Pierce from the horse and were gently carrying him into the hall. Without words, they moved as one and set off up the staircase in the direction of Pierce’s chamber.
Thomas followed quickly behind, not knowing if their father would join them.
Several quietly tearful maids did what they could to make Pierce comfortable in his bed as Thomas looked on helplessly. He could see that his brother’s breathing was becoming ever more rapid and shallow, and his skin was a pale grey against the almost purple of his lips.
The moment the maids had finished, Thomas drew up a chair at the side of the bed and reached out to lay a hand on Pierce’s cheek.
“I do not know if you can hear me, Pierce, but I shall speak anyway,” Thomas began, looking over his shoulder to be sure they were alone at last. “I want you to know that I do not blame you for Catherine. I know my behaviour would suggest otherwise, but I have been in such pain these last months. But I have always known there was more to it; something else at the root of it all, and you were never really to blame. The way life has been led in this house since before we were born has infected everything in its path, us included.” Thomas’ voice broke, and his tears fell. He knew with certainty he could never have explained that there was not long left. “And now I am asking you to forgive me. Forgive me for shunning your efforts, even when I could see true remorse. Let this awfulness now be done between us. Let us be the little boys who ran about Shawcross with our bows and arrows all those years ago.”
Thomas felt the tiniest movement from the bed and looked intently at Pierce. There was the faintest, briefest flicker of a smile on his brother’s face, and he looked almost serene.
And then he was gone; one last gentle rush of air from his lungs, and Pierce Carlton took no more breath. Thomas let his head fall forward onto his brother’s chest and wept.