Page 16 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 16
Fire
M arguerite’s and Betty’s boots left marks in the damp earth as they approached the Hayworth farm. Two days had passed since that afternoon in their barn since Tristan’s lips had touched Maguerite’s with such uncertainty that it made her want to scream. Her thoughts lingered on the memory even as she focused on the matter at hand.
An elderly woman curtsied as they passed, and Marguerite noticed how her eyes lingered. Hopefully, no doubt wondering if their master would resume his habit of regular visits. She understood now why Tristan avoided these paths—every corner had memories of the man he’d been, every face asked him questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
The Hayworths stood in their yard, faces downcast with worry as they spoke with Mr. Thorne. Lord Guildford’s butler’s usual composure appeared strained as he delivered unwelcome news.
“His lordship was most specific,” Mr. Thorne said. Marguerite could hear him easily across the yard. “The bonfire ad must be moved away from the barn immediately.”
“But we’ve always burned our excess there,” Mr. Hayworth protested. “These past twenty years, same spot, same time of harvest—”
“And now his lordship forbids it,” Mr. Thorne said laconically. “He was quite emphatic on the matter.”
Mrs. Hayworth wrung her hands together in her apron. Her weathered hands hadn’t stilled since Marguerite arrived, twisting the fabric as though she might wring understanding from its folds. “We meant no harm. When we lit it yesternight, we never thought—”
The previous night’s bonfire had left a black scar on the earth beside the barn, ashes still smoldering faintly in the morning air. Scorched grass marked a circle around the site where they’d burned excess hay for decades without incident. Mrs. Hayworth’s apron bore evidence of her attempts to clear away the evidence—soot stains and grass marks marring the usually pristine cloth.
The distress in her voice compelled Marguerite to act. Before her mind fully formed the decision to intervene, she strode across the yard and came to stand beside Mrs. Hayworth.
“What happened?” she asked, drawing their attention.
The farmers exchanged glances before Mrs. Hayworth spoke. “His lordship came upon us when we were burning the excess hay. He…” She hesitated. “Well, he wasn’t pleased.”
“Not pleased?” Mr. Hayworth’s weather-beaten face flushed. “He acted as though we’d set the whole farm ablaze. Shouting about putting it out and fire protocols—”
“George.” His wife touched his arm. “You saw his face. The way he looked at the flames…”
Marguerite’s hands stilled in the air as the pieces clicked into place in her mind. Of course. After Madrid, after that night at the embassy, any fire near a building would trigger memories best left buried.
She remembered how he’d sometimes flinched at the sight of candles, how his hands trembled at the sight of the hearth fire in his own study, even though he needed it for warmth. The cold was somehow even worse, perhaps reminding him of what came after the fire.
Each incident had seemed minor in isolation, but together, they painted a portrait of a man whose wounds ran deeper than even Marguerite had suspected. The war had left invisible scars that manifested in these unexpected moments, turning ordinary situations into battlefields where he fought enemies only he could see.
“The barn,” she said quietly. “He worried about the barn catching fire.”
“We’ve burned hay there for years,” Mr. Hayworth repeated. “Long before the war, when his lordship still…” He stopped, what looked like regret making his face contort as he looked away.
“Still what?”
“Still cared about more than his own self,” the farmer muttered. “Begging your pardon, My Lady, but he’s changed. The man who used to stop and ask for our children, who knew every field and fence on his land, is gone.”
“No.” Marguerite tipped up her chin to meet his gaze. “He’s not gone. He’s wounded. There’s a difference.”
Mrs. Hayworth stepped closer, lowering her voice. “We heard what happened in Madrid. About the fire, the explosion. If we’d thought…”
“You couldn’t have known.” Marguerite glanced at Mr. Thorne, noting the butler’s blank expression. “Where is his lordship now?”
“In his study,” said Mr. Thorne, though his lips barely moved. “He’s been there since dawn.”
Since the incident, she translated silently. Since memories of Madrid had ambushed him in his own fields.
“Then perhaps it’s time someone spoke with him.” She said, already with her mind set on Lord Guildford’s study. “Mr. Hayworth, might I suggest moving the bonfire to the far field? Not because his lordship commanded it, but because sometimes accommodation costs us little and means much.”
The farmer sighed as he considered her words. “He was a good master before. Fair-minded. Knew every tenant’s name, every child’s birthday.”
“He can be again.” Marguerite touched his wife’s arm briefly. “If we help him remember how.”
“Come, Betty, let’s call upon Lord Guildford.”
“I shall await you, My Lady,” Mr. Thorne added.
They left the Hayworths standing in their yard, knowing they were all trying to understand his pain in their own different ways.
The walk to Carlisle Manor had never felt longer. Marguerite’s mouth went dry as she tried to organize her thoughts into something coherent. She dragged her feet as she neared his door, still not knowing what she would say when she faced him. Nothing she thought seemed adequate.
The manor’s halls seemed darker than usual, though perhaps that was merely her imagination. Mr. Thorne had preceded her on horseback. He led them to the study door, which stood open in invitation.
Maps and letters littered every surface, suggesting Tristan had spent the night reviewing estate matters rather than seeking rest. A half-empty decanter stood beside his inkwell, and his usually immaculate desk bore evidence of agitated activity—papers shuffled out of order, wax had dripped where his usual careful seal-making had faltered. The curtains remained drawn though the morning had long since arrived. His self-imposed isolation made her heart ache.
She found Tristan at his desk, elegant fingers tracing the edge of what appeared to be a map of the estate. His cravat had come slightly loose, and a faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.
“I assume,” he said without looking up, “that you’ve been to the Hayworths.”
“I have.” She moved into the room. “Though I wonder if you might tell me your version of events.”
His fingers stilled on the map. “They lit a fire beside the barn.”
“They’ve done so for twenty years.”
“Then they’ve been fortunate for twenty years.” He pushed the map aside with heed. “One spark, one shift in the wind—”
“I know you are haunted by memories, but do you see how your reaction affected your tenants?.”
Now, he did look at her, and his eyes glistened with such anguish she found herself unable to look away. “They could have lost everything.”
Another step brought her within arm’s reach. “Tell me, if Madrid had not happened, would you have reacted with so much panic that you frightened your tenants?”
“Stop.” The word splintered as it left his lips.
“Why? Because I speak the truth? Because I dare to name the ghosts that haunt you?”
“Because you cannot understand!” He surged to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see—”
“No.” She held her ground despite how near he now stood. “I wasn’t there, but I’m here now, watching you retreat into memories while good people who care for you try to understand why their lord has become a stranger.”
Tristan turned away, putting distance between them as he moved to the window. His reflection in the glass revealed the strain around his eyes, the stress that held his shoulders rigid.
“They look to you,” Marguerite continued softly. “The Hayworths, all your tenants—they remember the man who cared for their welfare. Who knew their troubles and their triumphs.”
“I left more than comrades in Spain.” The admission cost him—she saw it in the way his hand shook now, betraying the uncertainty his rigid posture attempted to hide.
“I may not understand all of your pain and do not have the power to heal you, but God understands and can heal.”
“But I am not worthy.”
“The man who comforts sick children and pays for their medicines seems remarkably worthy.” His jaw clenched at her observation, but he didn’t deny it. She approached him slowly, taking each step painstakingly. "Did he simply forget how to reach beyond his own pain?"
“You have such faith,” he said roughly, almost accusatory. “As though mere belief could erase years of…” His fingers raked through his hair, destroying what remained of its order.
“Of what? Say it. At least start there. Simply.”
“Simply?” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “Nothing about this situation allows for simplicity.”
Marguerite halted beside him, and the rich wool of his coat stirred the loose curls at her temple as she did so, fixing her gaze on a spot past his shoulder, knowing any closer and her composure would shatter. Neither moved to increase the distance, though propriety demanded it.
“Then perhaps we might start with something small. The Hayworths will move their bonfire—not because you commanded it, but because they care enough to spare you pain.”
His reflection fractured as he turned slightly, dividing the man he’d been from the one who stood before her now. The strain showed in how his fingers curled against the windowsill, yet beneath the control, she glimpsed vulnerability in how his gaze kept returning to her face as though seeking something he dared not name.
“They spoke of Madrid?”
“They spoke of you. Of the man who knew their children’s birthdays, who understood every field and fence on his land.” She touched his arm lightly. “That knowledge hasn’t vanished, Tristan. It’s merely buried beneath memories you’d rather forget.”
“And if I cannot forget?” Such quiet words might have been thoughts he never wanted to speak out loud. “If every flame, every gathering, every moment of normalcy threatens to drag me back to that night?”
“Then we shall do this another way.” Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. She knew that his position demanded both authority and compassion. The estate needed its master whole, yet healing couldn’t be rushed any more than spring could be hurried into summer. Each step forward must balance his recovery against his responsibilities, finding ways to maintain his dignity while acknowledging his limits.
“The bonfire can burn in the far field. Gatherings can be small until larger ones feel safer. What matters is that you try—not for my sake, but for your tenants. For yourself.”
He remained silent, but she felt some of the rigidity leave his muscles beneath her touch. After a moment, he spoke again.
“I should not have shouted at them.”
“No.” She allowed a small smile. “Though perhaps you might tell them that yourself.”
The muscles in his neck tensed and shifted. “You suggest I apologize? A Viscount to his tenants?”
“I suggest you demonstrate the qualities that made you a good master before the war.” She moved to stand before him, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Unless you prefer to remain forever trapped between who you were and who you’ve become?”
The hard lines around his eyes softened briefly, then hardened again. His fingers reached for her face, hesitated, and retreated.
“When you speak of solutions, I begin to believe in them,” he confessed quietly. “Even the impossible ones.”
“Nothing about this is impossible, My Lord. And definitely, with God on our side, nothing will ever be, but we must trust Him.” She caught his retreating hand, lacing her fingers through his. “It will be difficult, yes, painful, certainly, but not impossible. Your tenants still respect you. Your concern for their safety, however forcefully expressed, comes from a place of care.”
“Care?” His mouth twisted. “They see only a madman shouting about dangers they don’t understand.”
“Then help them understand. Not everything, but enough to know their master hasn’t abandoned them to his demons.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “And if I fail? If I cannot be the man they remember?”
“Then be the man you are now—one who cares enough to protect them, even from dangers they don’t understand.” She squeezed his hand. “But first, you must show them that care extends beyond shouted commands and rigid restrictions.”
He glanced toward the door, then back to their joined hands. “You suggest I go now?”
“I suggest you go when you’re ready.” She released him slowly. “Though perhaps sooner would prove better than later.”
A slight smile touched his lips. “Ever the tactician.”
“Someone must be.” She stepped back, giving him space to choose. “Shall I accompany you?”
He straightened, adjusting his cravat with his free hand. “No. This…this I must do alone.”
Marguerite watched him stride from the study, his head held a bit higher every passing moment. She paused only when he had gone, her fingers pressed against lips that still tingled from memories of their kiss in the barn.
Perhaps some battles required solitude, but others…others required someone willing to bridge the gap between past and present, between what once was and what can come from within, between the man Tristan had been and the one he might become if only he found the courage to try.