CHAPTER TWELVE
NICHOLAS
I shake the three-quarters empty decanter of brandy. I think I should stop drinking. Since Victoria left me alone with her stinging words, I’ve drunk another three glasses. I’m not inebriated, but I’m on the way. I need to keep my wits about me while my father’s on his mission to have me married off and not in a way I care to.
It is getting late. I get to my feet and stretch my legs out. I must’ve been seated in the same chair for a couple of hours. I’m an energetic person, most of the time. I love to go to the gym, swim, play tennis, horse ride, and drive cars really fast. Sitting down reflecting on life isn’t something that I do all that often, but I’m feeling lethargic and have no desire to exercise. Maybe reading for a bit will quieten my mind and send me to sleep. I stumble in the dark to the library. The great-grandfather clock strikes eleven at night. Damn, I really was sitting there for a long time. I run a finger over the shelves searching for something that captures my attention enough to read. Nothing. Most of these books I’ve read, at some point in time — the remainder are just too old and boring. I turn around to look at the other side of the room, and my gaze goes instantly to the antique chest of drawers that sits proudly by the heavily carved door at the entrance to the room. My chest tightens — I know it's time as I take slow steps closer, toward the unit. I pull open the drawer, containing my mother’s diary, which she wrote after she was brought to Oakfield Hall for the first time. My father’s arrogant enough to just leave it lying around. The information it contains, I’ve been told, is potentially destructive. But then, I’m sure my father would just claim madness as the reason for my mother’s words. I pull the diary out and stroke the embroidered cover. It's covered in the most elegant silk and etched with a monochrome of her name, Katherine. I was five when she died. She was only a year older than I am now. I barely even remember her. I open the cover and turn to the first page.
“My life changed today. I don’t know if it’ll be for the better or worse yet. All I know is that it has changed.
I was brought to Oakfield Hall to be entered into a contest to become the wife of Henry Cavendish. My father had told me it would happen when I turned twenty-one, but that doesn’t make it any easier, leaving everything I know behind. This place is full of men. I don’t see any women except for six other terrified girls like myself. The current Duchess of Oakfield keeps to herself and looks so sad.
There’s something malevolent lurking beneath the surface here as well. I was branded. That doesn’t seem normal, but in this place I don’t know what is right or wrong anymore.”
I wince at the thought of my mother being permanently scarred in the same way as the girls. She was my mother and shouldn’t have been treated that way. Now, I'm just being ridiculous. I come from a long line of women who were chosen in the same way. I flick through a few pages.
“We had a horrible task today. I can’t even write about it. It broke me. I’m not that person. I don’t do these things. Why have I been put in this position?”
I turn more pages, unable to read about the tasks my mother had to endure.
“Henry Cavendish made his decision today. He chose me. The other girls were taken away, and I heard their screams most of the night as the other men in the society took turns with them. I feel so guilty. Why did he decide on me? I’m nothing special. We're to be married tomorrow. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. Henry isn’t a nice man. He takes delight in what he’s done to us. He isn’t a man with humanity or kindness in his heart. God, give me strength. I never thought that this would be the life of a Duchess.”
I slam the book shut and heave. My hands are shaking. Is this the type of man I am? Is this what Victoria, Elizabeth, and Amelia think of me? I turn and walk away from the diary. I can’t read anymore. I have to do this — I don't have a choice. A few more weeks and this part will be over. I force an exasperated breath from my lips. One more passage, I tell myself. One more passage. Going back to my mother’s journal, I open a page toward the end.
“They took my son from me today. My husband blames me for him not being perfect, but in my eyes he’s everything. I have nothing left. This will be my last entry. I can’t do it anymore. He’ll come to me tonight and beat me black and blue. He’ll force himself on me, and my body will die just as my mind did all those years ago. Goodbye, Katherine Cavendish, Duchess of Oakfield.”
There are no further entries in the diary. I look at the date written at the top of the page, but I already know in my heart what it will be. It’s the date of my mother’s death. I close the book again and put it back in the drawer. One day, when this is all over, I’ll read it again, but now her words will weaken me, and I can’t allow that to happen. I need to be strong to be the man that my father wants me to be. Maybe, when I’m Duke, I can work on changing the rules, but for the time being, there’s nothing that can be done. Victoria Hamilton may think that I’m a coward, but she doesn’t understand anything. She’s lived in a bubble, not the real world. It’s do or die out there, and I have no plans on dying just yet.
My mother’s words haunt me though,
“They took my son from me.”
I wish she were talking about me in that statement, but she isn’t. No, I have a brother. I’ve never understood why people call him wrong. He’s just William to me. I think he's just what I need. I stumble down the corridor, again in the dark, toward his room. It's as far away from my father’s as possible. The Duke has nothing to do with William, unless it’s vital. I unlock the door and enter without knocking. I know he’ll be awake. He likes to watch the stars.
“Hi, Bro.” I swagger in and hold my arms open.
“Out!” he shouts back from his vantage point next to his telescope at the window.
“Why?” I ask in confusion.
“You didn’t knock.” He frowns.
“Do I really need to do that?”
He flicks his hand across his head, around his nose, and taps his foot twice. I can see he’s getting agitated. William was diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum at a young age. In fact, the day my mother died. Most people think of a person with autism as having social inadequacies and learning disabilities, but William’s nothing like that. He's incredibly intelligent, far superior to me. He has his quirks — like the fact, he’s looking at me as though I’ve grown three heads because I didn’t knock on his door before entering. But other than that, he’s perfectly normal. Any social inadequacies are more likely to come from the fact that, since his diagnosis, my father has hidden him away in this room with only a governess for company most of the time. I think that would make it hard for anyone to interact the way that society decrees.
“I’m sorry.” I hold my hands up and step back toward the door. “I’ll come in again.”
“Three knocks.” His brows furrow together in anguish.
“Three knocks. I promise.”
I leave the room again and shut the door. This time before entering I knock three times and open. William’s smiling this time, and the anxiety of before is gone. Such a simple thing can agitate him so much. I feel guilty for upsetting him.
“Sorry,” I offer.
“It’s ok. His Grace came here earlier, and he always refuses to knock. I was scared it was him again.”
“What did he want?” I hate the thought of my father upsetting William. He’s two years younger than me, and I care a great deal for him.
“To tell me to make sure I’m quiet while we have guests. He doesn’t want them finding out about me. I embarrass him.” William sits down on a sofa. “I think Bertha told him I was playing my guitar earlier.”
I sit next to him and place my arm around him.
“If you want to play your guitar, then play it. You’re good at it. You could be in a band. Ignore Bertha and the Duke. They’ve got no taste.” Bertha is my brother’s governess. He doesn’t need her — he’s twenty-six for god’s sake, but my father insists. She’s William’s jailer. The first thing I’ll do when I’m Duke is get rid of her and allow William to see the world. He’s been cooped up in this house since he was three. I hate it.
“I shouldn’t. The girls may hear me.”
“They’re my girls, not father’s. I’m not ashamed of you like he is.”
William looks down at his hands. He taps one, his left on his leg three times and then the right three times. His autism is focused very much around routine. It comforts him.
“I’m not, William, I promise. When I’m Duke, everything will change. Father will leave for the country, and we can rule together. Brothers side by side.”
“What about your wife?” he asks.
I go quiet.
“This doesn’t have to be your legacy, you know.” William offers with optimism in his voice. “Your succession could be different.”
“Not you as well. It can’t — I have to go through with this.”
“Not necessarily.”
“To try to end this madness would assign far too many people to death. You and the girls downstairs included.
I kick my shoes off and push back on his sofa, my head resting on the duck down cushion.
“I may not be seen, Nicholas, but I do a lot of seeing. She’s strong enough.”
What?” I rub my hands over my eyes. Now that I’ve laid my head down, my eyes are tired. The alcohol and the emotions are draining the strength from me.
“I may not remember Mother, but she was weak. Victoria isn’t”
“What has Victoria got to do with this?” My eyes drift shut. I’m trying to listen to him, but it’s becoming a struggle. William has always been a comfort blanket to me. We’ve snuck into each other's room since we were little. Thankfully, Bertha and our father only caught us a few times.
“You have goodness in you. You aren’t the devil Father wants you to portray.”
I yawn.
“I think you’re deliberately trying to confuse me. With all that ‘seeing’ you're doing, you must know I’ve drunk a lot of brandy.”
I fall asleep to William laughing at me.