She was adrift on an angry sea of emotions and grief. Grief not for her husband but for the young girl she had been, for the trust he had wrenched from her heart. She mourned the young woman who had thought so naively that she was about to start a new and exciting life, only to find it was to be the end of her innocence, her dreams, and her hope in a future that was not to be hers.
For so long she had taken the blame for her husband’s anger, for his brutal treatment. For was there anyone else to blame? She had searched in vain for an answer to so many questions but in the end, she had felt only numb, unable to function without his instruction, without his fist forever poised and about to strike for the smallest, faulty step.
Her mind spun and dipped and swayed in an effort to bring her back but all she could see was the darkened room, smell the metallic aroma of blood, and something else she didn’t quite understand, of her hand reaching out and finding Nathaniel’s body cold and staring. Her shaking hands on the…
“Lisbeth? Lisbeth!” Oliver didn’t know what to do. He’d turned from locking the door to find her doubled over on the floor crying and making a horrid keening sound that almost stopped his heart it was so soul-wrenching. The sound of pure misery. He’d heard it before, too many times before. The sound of grief and despair. It was the sound of one’s heart shattering into a million pieces.
He’d seen women crying over the bodies of their dead, screaming their anger at a hazy smoke-filled sky. At the time he had been glad there was no woman who would have to suffer such a fate over him was he to fall in battle. He’d seen this at too many battlefields, too many dead, too much needless grief. Hewished he could forget but some things burn into one’s memory like a tattoo.
He blinked several times, which didn’t help at all. His eyes still burned. What had he done?
Dealing with women in such a state was beyond his experience. Did he dare touch her or offer her comfort? He’d tried that once and she had threatened to blow a hole through his ribs. She didn’t have her precious little pistol now so perhaps if he… just…
He knelt down beside her and took hold of her shoulders. She jerked away from him, her eyes filled to overflowing with tears—unseeing. He swallowed the smart remark meant to make her laugh. Instead, he pulled her towards him. She resisted for a few moments, fighting him with her small fists. Then focusing, as if recognizing him at last, she practically threw herself into his arms, weeping uncontrollably until his jacket and shirt were quite soaked through.
He sat on the floor with her in his arms and for a long time just rocked her. He smoothed her hair, crooning comforting words into her ear until he was nearly hoarse. He apologized profusely, and multiple times, for he knew to some extent her tears were a direct result of his thoughtless actions. If only he had not charged into her house like an imbecile demanding to know why he had been left out of her schedule. If only he had not been so upset by the thought that she was leaving him out of something important, he may have been able to process the fact that this was something she had needed to do herself, without him. She was in no state to tell him, so he guessed he would just have to wait.
It seemed like days she wept, intermittently hitting him in the chest, and squeezing the breath out of him. Finally, she released him. She had developed the most adorable hiccups,and he took this to mean that this particularly puzzling play of emotions was over with, for now.
Oliver stood, pulling her to her feet, and guided her to one of the stiff-looking chairs by the window. He gave her his handkerchief, for what it was worth, and went to open the door.
Now the entire household staff was waiting in the hall. He smiled. “She’s perfectly all right. Just had a bit of a…” Bit of a what, complete breakdown? “Turn,” he decided. “Spot of brandy I think, Rollands, if you please,” he requested. The butler raised a brow for a moment in surprise but then nodded even if he was still looking rather peeved.
“Oh, and some tea… for your mistress,” Oliver added. Well, by the looks on their faces that didn’t earn him any popularity points with her staff. He retreated back into the room and sighed loudly.
“It’s official. They hate me,” he announced as he walked over to her. She hadn’t moved an inch. “Look, Lisbeth I’m sorry… again for… whatever it is that I did.”
She lifted her head and looked at him for a few moments. Then she laughed a sad little laugh that indicated that she didn’t really want to laugh, but he was obviously so pathetic at apologizing that it had caused an involuntary reaction. It was a start, if nothing else. The start of what, though, he wasn’t sure. Hopefully, not the start of more crying.
Oliver offered her a small smile in return.
“You have been very kind,” she said in a whisper.
“I have? Oh, the hair-smoothing technique was quite effective, granted. Learned that from my mother, God rest her soul. The words of comfort, though, were all mine, except for maybe, ‘don’t cry, precious,’ which IthinkI stole from my nanny.”
She smiled tremulously. “You are ridiculous.”
He looked at her through lowered lashes. “Yes, sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry. I’m beginning to believe you.” Lisbeth gave another weak smile and wiped her eyes again before offering back his handkerchief.
He looked at it. “Keep it as a memento… or twist it into an impossible knot, whatever takes your fancy,” he said as he watched her hands do just that.
“Thank you.” She stopped twisting his handkerchief and looked around the room. “It is I who should apologize. I am so sorry that I… wet your shirt. It is just that I… I hate this room!” she announced.
“Really? I would never have guessed.”
“My… husband was not a nice man. He was… mean and cruel and…” She stood, turning away from him.
“Countess, Lisbeth, please, there is no need for explanations if they upset you… Really.” He had a good idea exactly how mean and cruel Blackhurst had been.
“Do you not wish to know why I was so upset? Why this room so unsettled me?” She had commenced pacing around the room touching small items now, her brow creased as she looked for the right words.
He watched her, as always, with a growing admiration he wished he didn’t have. He had heard about Blackhurst from Dalmere last night, but he had not wanted to believe him. Perhaps Dalmere had been on the mark. He remembered Blackhurst’s portrait above the mantel in the parlor. A bitter taste formed in his mouth. Was it bad of him to want to dig Blackhurst up and pound his bones into dust?
“I assume there are bad memories in this room?” he asked, taking a seat to watch her. He loved watching her move. She had such an easy grace, the kind that came naturally and could not be taught no matter how many books may be placed on one’s head.
“Yes, bad memories.” She pushed one of Nathaniel’s pictures off-center on the wall. “I should thank you really.”
