Heron House
T here were not many men like the Duke of Baxter, men who drove themselves to ruin while seeming completely happy on the outside.
Sylvia, the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, had known a very few of such mettle.
They were a specific breed of men.
Men who did not know how to be at ease. Men who could not bear their own thoughts for too long. Men who could not bear silence. There was something unique about them, and she was convinced they were born that way.
Some people found continual activity to be very difficult. Not these men. For these men, the act of stillness was the battle. She knew broken men. She had a special fondness for them, and she had a special fondness for men who were different than the rest.
But there was one thing she was absolutely certain of.
The Duke of Baxter was not broken. Not yet.
But he was going to break. She’d been watching the boy these last two weeks.
He had been going just as his father had.
There was no real surprise there, but it seemed to be an even more intense breakneck speed by which the boy devoured life.
He was not really a boy, of course. He was a full-grown man, that she understood, but to a woman of her years, someone so young felt like a boy, like a child. And she wished she could reach out, take his hand, pull him aside, and tell him that if he did not change his ways, it would all come apart.
But she knew better than most that sometimes one could not intervene.
Words would not change anything, and the truth was the Duke of Baxter, whether he understood it or not, was heading towards calamity.
The real question was whether she was willing to watch her granddaughter be on that path with him.
She was no fool. She did not think she could stand in their way if they chose each other.
It was all the more reason that she stood outside the Duke of Baxter’s chambers. Dawn was approaching, and the man had not yet gone to bed. She knew it because she had stood outside the chamber for some time, listening to him pace back and forth, trying to decide if she should indeed intervene.
At long last, she lifted her knuckles, her beloved jewels shining upon her fingers, and gave a single rap on the door.
She heard the steps stop on the other side of the door and then approach.
He opened it slowly, his eyes widened. “Dowager Duchess,” he whispered, clearly aware that most of the house was asleep, even if he was not.
“I think, at this rate, you must call me Sylvia, my boy. Now step back and allow me to enter.”
He stared at her for a long moment and then said, “I am very busy. I have a bill that is incredibly important, and I will be speaking before the House of Lords this morning.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, waving her hand at him. “I am aware of it, but if I wait for you not to be busy, Your Grace, I shall have to wait until I am dead to speak to you, and then I think you will still be busy.”
He winced at that. “Fair point. Do come in.”
He stepped back and gestured for her to join him.
She slipped into the room and was quite amazed by the piles of papers on the desk.
He had taken up rooms in Heron House like a whirlwind.
He lived there as if he was in his own house.
In some ways, she admired it. He wasn’t afraid to be exactly who he was.
Well, no, that was not true. She’d felt a slight unease, the sense that he was afraid that they might all judge him for being exactly who he was.
She did not judge him. She admired him in many ways, but she could see his difficulty even if he could not.
“I think that you and my granddaughter have been having a marvelous time together. Is that not true?”
“It is true, Dowager Duchess.” He coughed. “Sylvia. But if you have come here to discuss that, perhaps it could wait. You see, it is essential that I drive home—”
“It cannot wait, Your Grace,” she cut in kindly. “And I don’t think that you are actually a man who likes to wait, though you might wish to push this particular subject aside. If you’re going to marry her, I think that I need some assurances.”
“You need assurances,” he echoed, as he crossed to his desk and began sorting through a stack of papers.
“Yes, that you’re not going to pop off and die.” She arched a brow. “The way you drive yourself, my boy, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were forced to your bed any day. The body does like to rebel. And that would be the best-case scenario.”
“Good God,” he sighed, “not this again. Your sons have had the same conversation with me.”
“To little or no effect,” she mused. “Don’t you think it’s because we care about you and that we like you that we keep pointing out that you seem determined to drive yourself to ruinous health?”
He put his papers down and braced his knuckles on his desk, appearing to gather his thoughts. “I think you care about your granddaughter, and you’re most concerned about her, which is a very admirable thing,” he replied. “But you mustn’t worry about me. I’ve lived like this my whole life.”
“Yes, that is the problem,” she drawled. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
He stilled. “Sleep is not necessary.”
“Sleep is necessary,” she returned. “Without sleep, humans don’t do well at all. Now, I grant you, not everyone needs as much sleep as others, but there’s something pushing you, dear boy. Something that is almost like a demon inside.”
“It is not a demon,” he replied with a surprisingly even tone. “But, yes, I do feel driven.”
She sighed. “Have you ever just sat for a little while?”
“Why would I do that?” he said.
She let out a slow laugh. “All right, I see,” she said.
He arched a sardonic brow. “Do you?”
“Yes, I do.” She paused, then folded her hands before her, hoping that she was not about to choose a tactic that would prove a mistake. “You know I liked your father very well.”
“I did too,” he said softly, his lips curling with a sort of pained nostalgia.
She cleared her throat. “I must ask you a question.”
“Yes?” he queried.
“How well did you know him?”
“Oh, very,” he said.
“Did you?” she queried, her voice pitching up slightly with disbelief.
He nodded, clearly not hearing her tone. “Yes. He instilled in me the importance of helping people. He was wonderful.”
“Yes, he was,” she allowed. For she had indeed known Baxter and thought he was one of the best men in the country and that it had been a great pity that he had been taken before he could truly do his great work.
“The people on his land, I think, admired him very much, and I certainly loved all of his writings. I read them all, you know.”
“Did you?” he asked softly, like a small boy eager for love.
“Yes, and I’ve read many of yours too,” she said honestly.
“It’s really a wonder that you have taken up so much interest in helping the people of England and not simply spending money as so many dukes do.
Impressively, you aren’t gambling away an entire fortune, though, of course, I know that you do entertain yourself.
Still, how much time did you actually spend with your father? ”
“A great deal,” he stated.
She pursed her lips. “Truly? Real time. Time when he was not distracted by his work.”
He paused. “Well, when you put it like that, I don’t…” He hesitated and he thought back. She could see him trying to remember.
“I wonder how little time you actually did spend with him, my dear boy.”
“He was very busy,” Callum defended.
“Yes,” she said gently. “I’m sure he was and so are you. Will you spend time with your children?”
“Of course I will,” he replied, his tone hot with indignation at being asked.
“How much time?” she asked, refusing to be deflected.
“As much time as…” His voice died off.
“You wish to be exactly like him, don’t you?”
“My father?” he queried.
“Yes.”
“Yes, of course I do,” he breathed. “He was the greatest man I knew.”
“He was a great man,” she agreed. “And you got to spend very little time with him. Don’t you think that’s sad?”
He tensed. “No, I don’t. It was a sacrifice that my mother and I had to make so that more people could be helped. He wasn’t born a regular person. He was born a great man and great men must act thus.”
“Must they?” she queried softly, without mocking, but a touch of tiredness hit her.
She was more tired lately. For the truth was people so often did the worst things for themselves rather than the best. And she feared that Callum Royce, Duke of Baxter, was no different.
And worse, that he would not be easily convinced to give up what was harming him.
“Yes,” he affirmed, clearly wishing he could ask her to leave but knowing he could not.
“I see.”
He narrowed his gaze and then closed his eyes. “Are you going to try to convince your granddaughter not to marry me because I will be…so busy?” he asked.
“No, I would never try to convince Cymbeline to do anything, and if I did, it wouldn’t work,” she replied simply, understanding now, after so many years, that one could nudge and hope and suggest, but one could never actually change another if they did not wish it.
At least not without doing potentially great harm.
“She will do exactly as she pleases, despite what her father and her uncles and her cousins might say. She has a mind of her own, that one.”
He opened his eyes, and his lips turned in a bemused smile as he thought of her.
And that single look gave Sylvia hope. Hope that all wouldn’t be lost if Cymbeline married him, for he loved her. It was clear as day upon his face. And that love just might save him too.
“Yes, she does,” he said, clearly proud of that.
“It’s why you like her so well, isn’t it?”
“It’s why I…”
“You love her, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s a bit…”
“Frightening?” she queried, her own heart warming deeply for the boy who would soon be her family.
He nodded.
“Because it’s something you can’t control, is that it?”
He nodded. “I’ve never felt anything like it in my whole life.”
“Good,” she said. “You need to feel that. It’s important to feel deeply, you know.”
“It’s not a problem,” he suddenly rushed, “my feeling deeply.”
“Is it not?” she queried, hoping that he would unburden himself.
He hesitated, but in the dark hours of the very end of night, just before the first light of dawn, he whispered, “I feel very, very deeply, and it’s sometimes…”
“Unpleasant?” she suggested.
His knuckles whitened as his fists tightened on his desk. “Yes. It’s very unpleasant.”
“So you race about quickly and never pause to feel it.”
He stared at her and the spell was broken. “I’m sorry. Why are you here?”
“I am here because I want my granddaughter to be as happy possible.”
“I promise I will make her happy.”
She tilted her head to the side, then shook her head. “Such promises are made by men who do not actually understand what happiness is, but I thought I would come here and at least try.”
“Try what?” he asked.
“To make you see before you get married what will happen.”
He tensed. “And what will happen?”
“Cymbeline will marry you. You two will seem happy, and then she will have children, and you two will drift apart because her world will become the world of children. And you will continue doing as you do, but you will not be able to slow down. You will not be able to be still. You will not be able to enter the world of your children because children need someone who can pause, who can stop always doing what needs to be done in the world of adults.”
A strange, pained look crossed his face. “Are you suggesting that I will be a terrible father?”
“That’s not exactly what I said.”
“Isn’t it?” he demanded quietly.
She pressed her lips together, wishing this conversation had turned out differently. But he was committed to his path. “I think it will be entirely up to you, and I think it will be entirely up to you if you take care of yourself and are there for them, as your father could not be there for you.”
“I think you should go now,” he said.
She smiled sadly. “I think you are right, but I want you to know something. I like you, Callum. So, don’t think I’m here saying these things because I don’t like you or think you shouldn’t marry Cymbeline.
As a matter of fact, I like you very well.
That is why I’m standing here now. We don’t want to be denied your company, you know. ”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Nothing is amiss. Everything is fine.”
“Of course it is,” she replied, nodding, though her heart ached for him. “Your wedding shall be marvelous. I shall wear my very best gown, and I shall tell everyone what a wonderful grandson you shall be.”
He sucked in a breath. “I never thought about that,” he said.
“What?”
“That I shall be your grandson.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, laughing softly. “You’re about to be brought into the fold and you know what that means, don’t you?”
He shook his head warily.
“Your life is going to change.”
“And what if I don’t want it to change?” he asked.
“Then you shouldn’t get married,” she said. “At least not to her.”
And with that, Sylvia turned and slipped out into the hall.
Her heart longed to sink, but she did not allow it to because in her experience, giving in and giving up were not possible.
There was always a way, and she felt certain that even if the Duke of Baxter could not see it, there was something on the horizon waiting for him.
A moment in which he would have to choose the past and how he had always been, or a future where he could actually be happy and actually be loved and actually be alive.
Because one thing she knew for certain. The Duke of Baxter did not realize it himself, but the truth was he had not actually been living for a very long time. He had been running from himself, his pain, and peace all his life. And perhaps he always would.