The study smelled of tobacco and leather.The scent clung to the walls and drapes despite the room having sat closed for two years.Crispin stood in the doorway, his fingers curled loosely around the edge of the doorframe, reluctant to step inside.
This had once been his father’s domain.The private sanctuary of the late Earl of Oakford.A place of weight and order, where ledgers were balanced, correspondence meticulously organized, and disappointment doled out with clipped precision.
Now, the walnut desk lay blanketed in dust, motes rising in a solitary shaft of light, a silent testament to time suspended and the life once lived here.A faint draft stirred the heavy curtains, whispering through the silence with a sound like distant sighs.It was a still, expectant hush.The kind that pressed in around him and made every movement feel like a trespass.
Crispin crossed to the desk, each footstep echoing a little too loudly.A curious tangle of emotions unspooled in his chest.Dread, certainly, but also a pull of nostalgia that caught him off guard.This room had once felt like a battlefield, but now it beckoned like a monument, a space filled with ghosts not just of his father’s expectations but of the boy Crispin used to be.He could almost hear the faint creak of his childhood boots on those very floorboards, the scrape of a chair leg dragged clumsily back when he thought sneaking into this place would reveal adult mysteries.
There was defiance, too, as he moved forward.An unspoken declaration that he had every right to be here now, forged from the sting of past dismissal and the quiet strength he had discovered in Clara’s gaze.The weight of her belief, or perhaps her challenge, anchored his steps, transforming uncertainty into purpose.This space no longer belonged to judgment, but to memory.To choices.To change.
The walnut desk loomed before him, its once-glossy surface now dulled by dust and time.He ran his fingers over a shallow gouge in the wood near the edge, made, he recalled, the day he had knocked over the inkwell while trying to sneak a look at his father’s correspondence.The reprimand that followed had been sharp, but the memory of it was strangely tender now.The brass drawer pulls were cold under his fingertips, ornate lions with ringed mouths that had once fascinated him as a boy.He exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the familiar weight of the past before pulling open the center drawer.
Inside was a scattering of loose items.A tarnished cufflink, a broken quill, and a letter in his mother’s hand.
He hesitated before picking it up.The seal had been broken—read, perhaps, by his father and then kept.
He unfolded the parchment carefully, as if it might fall to pieces.
“Still poking around Father’s things, are you?”came a voice from the doorway.
Crispin looked up sharply to see Edward leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed.His brother’s tone was mild, but his eyes missed little.
“Not poking,” Crispin said, lifting the letter faintly.“Reflecting.”
Edward stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with a familiarity born of long-forgotten hours spent studying at their father’s desk.His brow furrowed slightly as he took in the dust-covered surfaces and heavy air, unchanged since the earl’s passing.
“It still smells the same,” he murmured, half to himself, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips.“Like stern words and tobacco.”
“You always said you hated this room.”
“I did,” Crispin admitted.“And yet here I am.”
Edward studied him for a beat.“You have changed.”
“Not enough,” Crispin replied quietly.
Edward approached the desk and picked up the broken quill.“He never made it easy.For either of us.”
“No,” Crispin agreed.“But now I wonder if… maybe there’s still time to be someone better.”
Edward set down the quill.“There is.Just be sure you are becoming that man for yourself, not for him.”
Crispin nodded.“And for someone else, perhaps.”
Edward smiled faintly.“Then do not wait too long.”
The words struck Crispin with quiet force.Something in his brother’s steady gaze—a gaze free from judgment, only laced with hope—made his chest tighten.Was it guilt for all the wasted years?Relief that someone still believed in him?Or resolve freshly forged, not to let that belief be in vain?He couldn’t say for certain, but the sensation was unmistakable.A door had opened, and he had only to walk through it.
Edward stepped back, gave his brother a respectful nod, and quietly left the room.
Crispin sat back in the chair, the letter resting on his knee.The parchment crackled softly beneath his fingers, dry and delicate with age.The scent of lavender clung faintly to it.His mother’s favorite perfume.The familiar aroma tugged at something buried deep, a summer afternoon when he was no taller than the desk, watching her seal a letter with care and press it into his father’s hand.That letter had disappeared behind closed doors, much like the affection in their household.Now perhaps, here it was.A fragile thread from the past, resting against his knee like a burden and a benediction.Emotion stirred low in his chest, a bittersweet ache that felt like coming home to something he’d never truly had.
My darling boy,
He will never say it, but he loves you fiercely.He simply doesn’t know how to show it.Be more than what he expects.Be kind to yourself.That will be the greater rebellion.
The ink had faded slightly.Maybe Mother planted it here after Father’s death with the expectation Crispin would find it.He sank into the chair behind the desk and let the letter rest on his knee.
He had spent years molding himself into the version that would most distress his father.The charming rogue who deflected pain with laughter, the libertine who shrugged off duty and consequence alike.Embracing that role had been far simpler than facing the hollowness that awaited him each night.But Clara had never regarded him with the same amused detachment as the rest of the ton.She saw through the layers.Past the charm, past the bravado, and something in her unwavering gaze had stirred in him a desire to be better.Did he truly want to become someone new, or did he simply long to shed the exhausting mask?The answer, he feared, was tangled somewhere in the years he had spent hiding from himself.
