His accounts always added up exactly as they should, but that wasn’t happiness. “No, that brings satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction. So that is not happiness? I must say, I find it so when tupping the missus.”
He waved off the man’s comment. “That’s just physical release. It is not happiness.”
Archer took another sip of whisky then contemplated his glass before speaking. “For you, it’s physical release. For those who know what it is to love a woman and be loved in return, it is happiness. And you, my young lord, have no idea what that’s like.”
“Exactly. Because despite my best efforts, I chose wrong in my wife. If I had chosen correctly, life would have been perfect and I would have been happy, ergo, perfection equals happiness. Man is not perfect, and is therefore doomed to be unhappy.” Feeling an odd sense of triumph in his dark reasoning, Darius pushed away from the fireplace and walked to the sideboard. He was halfway through his pour when his gamekeeper spoke.
“You have it all backward, Ferncroft.”
He turned at the use of his title. “Do I? I think not.”
Archer rose before walking over and setting his empty glass on the sideboard. “It is the imperfections that make us unique. They are what make us loveable, and it is love that brings true happiness. Think upon that.” He poured himself yet another glass and lifted it up in salute. “It’s damned cold out there tonight.” He moved toward the fireplace as if just talking about the cold gave him a chill.
Darius poured a brandy. “Then maybe I should go for a walk. This room feels like a cave.”
Archer turned at that. “You could always lock yourself in your rooms at the house.”
Darius shivered at the thought. “That’s worse, being locked in a space within a space. Here I can leave at night. Unless your son is about.”
Archer shook his head. “No. I don’t let anyone walk the north wood as a precaution, since I never know when you’ll be here.”
“Yes, and here I am. The monster in his cave needing to be released.” Darius swirled his brandy in the glass, the reddish-brown liquor reminding him of a painting of hell by Hieronymus Bosch. He felt like one of the creatures in the painting.
“Then go. This is your estate. I just suggest you stay away from the lake. Young Peter is not ready to lose another parent.”
At the mention of his son, some of the dark anger left him and he took a sip of his brandy before returning to the settee. “I would not do that to him.”
“And glad I am to hear that. I know you don’t believe it right now, but you’re a good man, Ferncroft…for a swell.”
Darius snorted, seeing no reason to reply to such idiocy.
Archer moved away from the fire and set his half-empty glass on the sideboard. “I’d best get back to my rounds or my lord will take issue with my work.”
“Bugger it, Archer.”
The gamekeeper ambled to the side door and shrugged into his coat. “Have as good as a night as you’re able.”
And with that, the man left to complete his travels around the estate, watching for poachers until the wee hours of dawn.
“Not perfect? If my imperfections made me loveable, I’d be surrounded by love.” Darius snorted then held his glass high as he toasted to the closed door. “Have a safe night, my friend, and I will endeavor to do the same.” He took a gulp of the brandy, reveling in the strong burn as it made its way down his throat and into his stomach.
He held the glass in both hands. Now that he was alone once more, as he should be, he could continue down the dark path of his thoughts, but once again Archer had piqued his interest when he least wished to be interested in anything.
Though the old man had missed the mark on what brought happiness, he had made some interesting points that could be investigated. Determined to prove his gamekeeper wrong, Darius searched for reasonable, logical reasons for happiness. Wealth, family, and success brought comfort. Because he was a marquess, he had no need to prowl the woods in search of poachers all night.
He took another sip of brandy. Yet here he was, hiding from his children and staff to avoid saying anything that would hurt them, keeping them in the dark, as it were, so as not to visit his pain and melancholy upon them. While Archer would return home to his wife in the cottage he was provided and enjoy her with laughter and body and be happy.
Swirling the liquid in his glass, Darius stared at it as if it could answer him before becoming frustrated with his inability to come to a satisfying conclusion. Downing the rest, he waited for the harsh burn before throwing the glass into the fireplace. Rising, he looked about, feeling trapped again.
He strode to the door, opened it, and walked outside into the trees of his own forest. He’d barely gone a few yards before the cold frost of the night seeped into his stockings, chilling his feet, but still he walked off the path and into the dense wood. The moon shone down between the leafless trees, making their shadows look like crooked arms reaching toward it.
He halted and looked up through the bare branches that grabbed for the shining partial orb. It had been full days ago. He only knew because he’d woken to its light, unable to sleep. Luna. The mother of the lunatics. He should feel a kinship with her, but he didn’t.
A chill ran through him. It was too damn cold.
“Who, who.” An owl sounded nearby.
