Page 25 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 25
Facing Demons
" H e means to visit the Hoffmans today.” Lady Elizabeth’s words drew Marguerite’s attention from her untouched breakfast. “Your Lord Guildford wrote this morning requesting permission to escort us.”
Marguerite’s hands stilled on her napkin. “He’s decided to face them at last?”
“So it seems.” Her aunt passed the note across the table. “Would you care to share why this visit is so significant? Beyond the obvious connection to Madrid?”
“Henry Hoffman was more than just another officer.” Marguerite traced Tristan’s handwritten script, noting the slight unevenness that betrayed his agitation. “He was Tristan’s closest friend. They grew up together, served together…”
“Survived together?” Lady Elizabeth’s voice gentled. “Or at least, one of them did.”
“Henry lived, at least for a year.” Marguerite set the note aside. “Though his injuries left him unable to walk. Unable to take care of his family. Unable to—” She broke off as emotion threatened to overwhelm her.
Her aunt reached across the table to catch her hand. “And Lord Guildford carries that burden as though it were his own fault.”
“He commanded the regiment that night,” said Marguerite, her voice low as a whisper. “He believes he should have prevented the explosion. Should have recognized the danger before—”
The butler’s arrival interrupted her explanation. “Lord Guildford, Your Ladyship.”
Tristan entered the morning room, his spine rigid despite his perfect manners. His morning coat had been pressed within an inch of its life, the cravat tied with far too much care, yet Marguerite noted the strain around his eyes.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He bowed. “Lady Marguerite. I trust my note didn’t arrive too early?”
“Not at all.” Lady Elizabeth rang for fresh tea. “Would you explain what prompts this sudden desire to visit the Hoffmans? After so long avoiding such contact?”
Tristan’s fingers stilled around his hat brim. “Recent events have…that is to say…” He glanced at Marguerite. “Some burdens grow lighter when shared.”
She nodded to him, the interaction warming something in her chest despite the gravity of the moment. She rose, crossing to touch his arm lightly.
“The carriage can be ready within the hour,” she said softly. “Unless you’d prefer to delay?”
“No.” His free hand slid against hers where it rested against his sleeve. “I’ve delayed far too long already.”
Lady Elizabeth observed their exchange smilingly. “Let me change my dress then before we depart. This gaudy gown hardly suits such an occasion.”
They separated reluctantly as her aunt quit the room. Tristan moved to the window, his back straight enough to please his old drill sergeant.
“You don’t have to accompany me,” he said without turning. “This visit may prove difficult.”
“All the more reason for me to come.” Marguerite joined him at the window, close enough that their arms pressed together. “Would you rather face it alone?”
Now he did turn, his eyes welling a little as he met her gaze. “I’m beginning to believe I need never face anything alone again.”
She smiled, taking his hands into hers, “Then why don’t you tell me more about them? The Hoffmans. So I will be able to better understand them when we meet.”
He stepped closer, taking her hands and then tightening his hold. “Henry was…he understood things other men didn’t. Never questioned why certain sounds made me flinch or why I preferred solitude to society’s demands.”
“Because he shared similar tendencies?”
“Because he recognized what war does to a man’s soul.” Tristan pressed harder on her hands. “His wife, Catherine, she’s much like you—strong enough to face ugly truths without flinching. Their daughter, Emily…” His voice caught. “She was barely walking when we went to Spain. She was in her fourth year when Madrid happened. Now she’s not seven, and I’ve never…”
“Never seen how she’s grown.” Marguerite pressed closer, offering what comfort she could. “Never watched her become her father’s daughter.”
“How could I?” he sniffed, and his nostrils flared. “When every time I considered visiting, all I could see was Henry’s face as the flames—” He broke off, gulping hard.
Marguerite lifted their joined hands, pressing her lips to his knuckles. “You’re ready now. That’s what matters.”
Before he could respond, Lady Elizabeth reappeared, attired in a modest grey gown. Her demeanor was composed and unreadable. She gave no indication of noticing their clasped hands or the tension evident in Tristan’s expression.
“The carriage awaits,” she announced, smoothing the folds of her pelisse with practiced ease. Her tone was perfectly polite, yet her following words carried the faintest edge of humor. “Though I would suggest reserving such declarations for a moment of greater privacy. My maid, while loyal, may not survive much longer if forced to feign blindness to your... intimate exchanges.”
The ride to the Hoffmans’ home was a peaceful one. Marguerite watched London’s fashionable streets roll past while Tristan’s nerves were on edge with each turning of the wheels. When they finally arrived at a modest but well-maintained residence in Mayfair, he looked whiter than a ghost.
“Remember,” Marguerite murmured as they descended from the carriage, “I am with you. If you find yourself overwhelmed, I am here for you.”
His hand caught hers, squeezing for a long moment before they had to be forced apart. Lady Elizabeth mounted the steps ahead of them, serving as both chaperone and buffer against the social awkwardness.
The butler who admitted them was as dignified as the house itself. “Lady Hoffman is in the morning room with Miss Emily,” he announced. “If you’ll follow me?”
Each step seemed to cost Tristan effort, yet he kept his back straight and his breath slow as they approached the designated room. Marguerite noticed his hands curling into fists at his sides and how he seemed to be making an effort to regulate his breathing.
They found Catherine Hoffman seated near the window, her chartreuse silk dress drawing attention to her fair coloring. A young girl knelt beside her chair, and the same golden curls as her mother fell over what appeared to be a drawing slate.
“Lord Guildford.” Catherine’s voice was neither warm nor cold as she rose and curtsied. “This is…unexpected.”
“Lady Hoffman.” Tristan bowed slowly. “I hope we aren’t intruding?”
“Intruding?” The girl’s head lifted at his voice. “Are you really Lord Guildford? Papa’s friend from the war?”
Marguerite felt Tristan’s whole body go still beside her. Emily Hoffman’s eyes matched her father’s, right down to the tiny flecks of gold around the pupils.
“I am,” he managed after a moment. “Though I confess myself surprised you remember me.”
“I don’t.” Emily rose with a grace beyond her ears. “But Papa’s letters mention you often. The ones he wrote before…” She glanced at her mother, who nodded with slight encouragement. “Before Madrid.”
The name of that cursed city seemed to rebound off every surface of the room. Marguerite moved closer to Tristan, tethering him to the present moment.
“Perhaps,” Lady Elizabeth interjected, “you might share some of those letters? I’m sure Lord Guildford would be most interested in hearing his friend’s words.”
Catherine’s expression softened slightly. “They’re in Henry’s study. Emily, would you fetch the blue box from his desk? The one with the regimental crest?”
As the girl quit the room, Catherine gestured for them to sit. “I won’t pretend this visit doesn’t surprise me,” she said quietly. “It’s been almost a year since you returned, over a year since Henry passed.”
“I should have come sooner,” Tristan said, sounding so rough and small that Marguerite scarcely recognized the voice as his. “Should have—”
“Should have what, My Lord?” Catherine’s tone wasn’t accusatory, though he flinched. “Faced your guilt sooner? Reminded yourself daily of what happened that night?”
“I owed him—”
“You owed him nothing.” She leaned forward slightly. “Henry knew the risks when he joined the army. When he insisted on attending that ball despite the rumors of French agents in Madrid.”
Tristan’s hands clenched in his lap. “I was their commanding officer. Their safety was my responsibility.”
“And yet you couldn’t prevent what happened.” Catherine’s gaze moved to Marguerite. “It seems someone has helped you begin to see that truth.”
Before either could respond, Emily returned, clutching a wooden box adorned with military insignia. “I found them! All Papa’s letters from Spain and the ones before when you were at school together.” She thrust the box at Tristan with such childlike enthusiasm it made Marguerite smile. Would she have a little girl of her own someday? But no, she mustn’t… “Will you tell me about him? About how you learned to ride together. How he taught you to fish in the stream behind Hoffman Hall.”
Marguerite watched Tristan as he took it all in, his face clearly reflecting the grief and guilt he was processing. But there was also something akin to hope—at least, she hoped it was hope.
When he spoke, his lips did not quiver as she had expected. “I will,” he said softly. “But why don’t you tell me about yourself first? What do you remember of him?”
Emily settled on the floor beside Tristan’s chair, her tiny fingers tracing the regimental crest on the box. “I remember him singing. Mama says he had a terrible voice, but he’d sing anyway, especially when I couldn’t sleep.”
“He did have a dreadful voice,” Tristan agreed, and though the memory brought tears to his eyes, his lips quirked up. “Though that never stopped him performing entire opera scenes in the officer’s mess.”
“Really?” Emily’s face lit up. “What else did he do?”
Marguerite watched as Tristan began sharing thoughtfully selected stories—tales of schoolboy adventures and military training that avoided any mention of Madrid. With each recollection, his rigid posture eased slightly.
“He sounds wonderful,” Emily said after a particularly amusing account involving a borrowed horse and a missed curfew. “Though Mama says he was different after the ball. That he couldn’t—” She broke off, glancing at her mother.
Catherine moved to smooth her daughter’s curls. “That he couldn’t do all the things he planned. Like teaching you to ride or taking you fishing in that stream,” Lord Guildford added.
“But he tried.” Emily’s chin lifted in a gesture so like her father’s that Tristan gasped audibly. “Even when moving hurt him, he’d still tell me stories about his adventures. Still, promise that someday…”
She faltered mid-sentence, her young face clouded with emotions too intricate for her tender years to articulate. With a sudden, heartrending sob, she buried her tear-streaked face against her mother’s shoulder, clinging tightly as Catherine murmured soothing words and gently stroked her hair.
Watching the scene, Marguerite felt that familiar pang, the wistful longing to stand in Catherine’s place. Yet she pushed the thought aside, reflecting instead on the simplicity of a child’s unrestrained grief. She mused how much easier life would be if adults could so freely collapse into the arms of their loved ones when the weight of their emotions became too much to bear or left them trembling with fear.
As Emily turned back to them, now sitting on her mother’s lap, Tristan leaned forward, and his voice was gentle in a way Marguerite had only heard him use with Tommy Porter.
“Would you like to learn?” he asked quietly. “To ride? To fish? Your father taught me both skills—it seems only fitting I should pass them on to his daughter.”
Emily’s eyes grew wide with wonder, the soft innocence of her expression so endearing that it sent a pang straight to Marguerite’s heart. “Truly? You would teach me?” she asked, her voice a mixture of awe and hopeful delight.
“If your mother permits.” He glanced at Catherine, whose eyes had softened further. “Would you like to start with riding? I know a very patient mare who would suit a beginner perfectly.”
“The same one you use for Tommy’s lessons?” Marguerite couldn’t help asking.
“The very same. And Miss Hoffman will prove an equally apt pupil, won’t she?”
“Tommy Porter?” Emily bounced slightly in her excitement. “From the baker’s shop in Guildford? He told me all about your lessons! Said you’re teaching him military signals and everything!”
Catherine’s eyebrows rose. “Military signals? To a baker’s son?”
“Knowledge belongs to those willing to learn,” Tristan replied, a trace of his old defiance entering his tone. “Just as your husband believed.”
“Yes.” Catherine’s voice was gentle. “He did rather insist on that point. Sally will prepare tea. We should discuss these proposed lessons over tea, and my maid mentioned something about fresh scones when you arrived.”
As she called for refreshments, Marguerite noted how naturally Tristan had begun interacting with Emily—answering her eager questions about horses and fishing streams while preserving that immaculate balance between honesty and discretion that speaking with children required.
“He’s rather good with her,” Lady Elizabeth murmured from her seat near the window. “Though it’s not so surprising, is it? Given his experience with young Tommy?”
“He understands loss,” Marguerite replied quietly, though her mind wandered back to her earlier thoughts, to the maternal instinct that Emily Hoffman had enkindled in her. Tristan would be a good father, wouldn’t he? “He knows how to bridge those gaps between what was and what might be.”
The look on her aunt’s face suggested she understood. Before she could respond, Catherine rejoined their conversation.
“Henry would approve,” she said softly, watching Tristan explain some point of horsemanship to her daughter. “Of you teaching Emily. Of you finally accepting that survival isn’t a sin.”
Marguerite touched her arm gently. “Did you know? About his guilt over Madrid?”
“Henry told me about it,” Catherine stated. “About Tristan’s tendency to carry responsibility for things beyond his control. Before he passed…” She swallowed hard. “He asked me to watch over him. To help him remember that living doesn’t dishonor the dead.”
“I tried,” she continued after a moment. “To reach out, but he withdrew so completely…”
“Until now.” Marguerite watched as Emily showed Tristan her drawing slate, covered in her pretty sketches of horses. A smile unwittingly spread across her face, so full of yearning, until she caught herself. “Until he found a reason to face those memories.”
Catherine’s gaze grew shrewd. “Thanks to you, I suspect. Henry would approve of that too—of someone finally breaking through those walls he built around himself.”
Tea arrived, prompting a general rearrangement of seating. Tristan found himself beside Marguerite on a small settee, their shoulders touching as Emily continued her excited chatter about upcoming riding lessons. Marguerite listened to her fondly, occasionally stroking the girl’s hair.
“Thank you,” Tristan murmured to her during a brief lull. “For accompanying me today. For understanding why this mattered.”
She pressed her hand against his beneath the cover of her skirt. “Naturally.”
The visit concluded with firm plans for Emily’s first riding lesson when Emily and her mother would be in Guildford. As they prepared to depart, Catherine drew Tristan aside.
“You don’t need my forgiveness,” Marguerite heard her say. “You never did. But if you require it to finally forgive yourself, then know you have it. Completely.”
Something in Tristan’s posture eased further at her words. When they entered their carriage for the journey home, Marguerite felt the change in him—not healed entirely, but beginning to accept that healing was possible.
“Well?” Lady Elizabeth asked as they turned toward Berkeley Square. “Shall we consider this expedition a success?”
“More than success.” Marguerite watched Tristan intently. “It is the start of something new.”
His hand found hers in the carriage’s darkness. “The continuation of something old,” he corrected quietly. “Honouring Henry’s memory by living as he would have wanted. By teaching his daughter the things he cannot.”
“By allowing yourself joy without guilt?” she suggested.
His fingers locked with hers. “By accepting that some gifts come at great cost, yet prove worth the price.”
Lady Elizabeth’s attention to the passing streets allowed them this moment of intimacy. As London rolled past their carriage windows, Marguerite felt more than just hope now: she felt excited. Not just for their future together but for Tristan’s ability to finally release the chains of guilt he’d worn since Madrid.
Healing, after all, required facing the very memories that haunted him most.