Chapter Twelve
One week. He’d been in residence in Glenwood Manor for one week and he was ready to bloody kill himself.
Maybe not that extreme, but he was dangerously close. He’d always heard stories of haunted castles; he never realized he owned one.
But he was quite certain that the ghosts haunted only him.
And that the haunting was in his own memory.
Everywhere he turned, some reminiscence surfaced. He couldn’t walk into the breakfast room in peace without some damn word from his father floating through his memory, reminding him of all the ways he’d failed. Every mirror he’d pass would reflect the man he used to be, not the man he was.
And the bloody silence.
It was like the inside of a crypt.
The servants walked around silently, whispering in soft tones only when absolutely necessary, a result of decades of training to be invisible to avoid wrath.
It was as if they expected him to be his father, and as such, had reverted to walking on eggshells that had defined the way of life at Glenwood Manor.
Ramsey knew it all too well. Like walking on fragile ice, you stepped cautiously, trying to remain unseen, unnoticed, to simply blend in.
It was easy for the servants. They were imagined so far below his father’s station that they were only spoken to when absolutely necessary. Almost as if the man thought just speaking to them muddied his hands from their lower station. Ramsey shook his head in memory.
But as a child, the only child, the heir, Ramsey couldn’t hide from his father’s view or scrutiny.
He stood from the chair in his study and walked over to the window. The hill behind the manor was stately, an ancient wood pointed to the heavens like tiny green arrows, while the white puffy clouds made the sky a richer blue in contrast. But the beauty was lost to him. He felt like a prisoner looking through bars of a jail cell at a sight that was just a reminder of freedom out of reach.
Facing his demons had been harder than he had anticipated. He closed his eyes and leaned a hand on the window frame.
A timid knock came at the door, and Ramsey welcomed the intrusion on his bleak thoughts. “Yes?” He turned.
“Pardon, my lord. But I took the liberty of bringing you tea.” The longtime housekeeper, Mrs. White, cautiously walked into the room with a servant girl following her with a tray laden with tea things.
“Thank you, how very kind,” Ramsey replied, trying to be everything his father was not. In a word, he wanted to be gentle.
Such a simple word with such complicated execution.
“You’re quite welcome, my lord. Shall I pour for you?” she asked after dismissing the servant girl.
“Yes, please.” He was grateful for her thoughtfulness. Growing up, she had always been the one he could count on for a word of encouragement.
“Still two sugars?” she asked, a twinkle in her green eyes, a touch cloudier in complexion than he remembered.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. Then proceeded to do something his father would never have supported. “Thank you, Mrs. White. You’ve been loyal and kind and often the only encouraging voice I can remember. I don’t know that I ever said how much I appreciated you, but I give you my thanks now.” He bowed his head respectfully.
Mrs. White blinked, handed him the cup of tea, and then withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Oh, my lord. I cannot tell you how that blesses my heart.” She paused, then tilted her head as if considering him.
“Yes?” he encouraged.
“May I be frank, my lord?” she asked, albeit a bit insecure.
“I would treasure your frank opinion, Mrs. White.” He took a tentative sip of tea. Perfect.
Mrs. White twisted her wrinkled lips and then took a breath. “From the day you were born, we knew there was only two options for you.”
Ramsey blinked, intrigued. “Yes?”
“You would either be worse than your father, God rest his soul, or you’d never measure up to whatever forsaken standard he created for you. Regardless, you would lose either way. You were born without hope, my lord. I cannot tell you how it has plagued me to watch you grow, and be helpless to offer any solace to your young heart.”
