Page 34

T he coach rattled over the cobblestones. Brighton’s salty sea air filtered through the window and condensed on William's dry lips. Why hadn’t he come sooner? The question was the only constant, endlessly churning in his mind.

His mother’s cottage came into view. Hay had been scattered on the street to hush the noise, its soft crunch underfoot muffling his steps as he made his way to the front door. Inside, the miasma of sickness and laudanum assaulted his senses.

A woman glided along the room’s edges. He recognized her as Lady Moira, his mother’s companion. She had always been absent during his yearly visits. His mother used to tell him she went to see her family, but William knew better—it was to avoid him. Still, her existence lingered between them, coloring their interactions, no matter where Lady Moira had gone.

Deep purple lines were etched into her cheeks.

She curtsied, her movements stiff with fatigue. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. We were not expecting your arrival today. I will gather a suitcase—”

“Stay,” William said. He would not be so heartless as to remove his mother’s companion from her sickbed. “Where is she?”

Pain flicked across Lady Moira’s face. “Outside.”

William nodded. “Summon her physician and whatever other medical attention she is receiving. I expect a meeting in two hours.”

William strode past the hushed house, the silence pressing down on him like a shroud. The servants scurried along the walls, their faces somber, as if they were already mourning.

When he stepped onto the veranda, the sun hit him in the chest. The white marble of the floor shimmered in the harsh sunlight, blinding him. Beyond, the ocean glittered—vast and indifferent.

His steps slowed as a heaviness settled in his limbs. A wave of memories flooded him. He was twenty-two. His father had died. Distraught with grief, he had visited his mother for the first time since she… Since she came to her retirement. He had crept inside, afraid his mother’s unbridled passion would graze his already tattered control. She had been in the garden, not in sin, but tending her begonias. He had been angry then. While he was alone, facing the constraints of dukedom, she lived in seaside bliss, unfettered by society’s restraints.

A cough brought him back to the present.

His mother curled in a rocking chair, a blanket covering her diminutive frame. The sight of her frailty stole his breath. When had she deteriorated like this?

She dozed, eyes moving behind papery skin. Bending, William kissed her cheek. Guilt surged in bitter waves, threatening to choke him. He was too late.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and her gaze looked weary, as if expecting more pain.

A tired smile lifted the corner of her lips, and she sighed. “William, my boy William. You came.”

Her eyes were no longer changeable but opaque.

“I should have come sooner. I apologize.”

William knelt by her side, his heart heavy. “How are you feeling?” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter her.

He searched her wrists for signs of bloodletting and breathed easily when he found none.

“I love it when the sun is shining. I fancy I can see Dieppe. The balls, the vineyards, so lovely. How sad that I won't set foot in France again.”

William caught her hand, not liking the fatalist tone. Once he spoke with the doctor, he would find a way to improve her health—the latest treatments, anything.

“Napoleon might falter yet, Mother, and before you know it, you will visit Bordeaux. I will take you there myself.” The vow tasted empty on his chafed lips.

She became silent, her gaze drifting out to the sea, the light in her eyes dimming as if her thoughts had carried her far away.

William shot to his feet. “Why are you outside? You will worsen your cold. Come, I will take you to the parlor.”

She waved her hand, her movements slow and weak. “For the little time I still have, I would rather see the sun than be smothered inside. I have pneumonia.”

Pneumonia? The disease turned lethal in a matter of days. Dread spiked through him as he grabbed his mother’s hand, the fragility of her bones apparent beneath his fingers. “I summoned your physicians. There must be something I can do.”

“William, William, always trying to bear the world’s weight. Must be tiring.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a finality in it that sent a chill down his spine. “There is no time to fix things, at least not for me… I’ve heard of your affair.”

“How did you—”

Of course. Thornley must have alerted her. The old fox had no right to interfere. William turned away from the prejudice he would find in his mother’s eyes.

“Would you tell me about her?” Her voice sounded inviting, like it did when she tapped the piano bench, wishing him to join her songs, or when she galloped over the cliffs, daring him to race her.

William dropped into a wicker chair, his shoulders tense. “Her name is Helene de Beaumont. She is a ballerina at the Covent Garden Theater.”

“A ballerina? Beneath the notice of the grand Duke of Albermale, yet she’s captured your attention. I like her already.”

“Before I met her, I’ve—” He exhaled forcibly, the words locked in his throat. “I was having these disturbing dreams. She was the embodiment of them.”

Why was he giving vent to his privacy? A youth daring his mother to reprimand him? A tired confession from a man who didn’t want to carry on hiding his love? His only certainty was that the secret he had carried all his adult life wanted out.

“I had to have her. If only to exorcise the passion father taught me to bank.”

“Your father… always trying to prune wildflowers into hedges. I’m glad he hasn’t fully succeeded.”

When no reprimand tainted her voice, William looked at her, surprised. Her expression was open, a wistful smile on her lips. Exhaling, William ran his hand through his hair. The exhaustion of the hours on the road, the night without sleep, of leaving Helene, they all left his shoulders. He didn’t know how much he craved his mother’s acceptance until now, on this sunlit veranda with the ocean as a witness.

William closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the dainty chair. “But then, I knew her, not the Sylph, the woman… She is vivacious, noble, kind, stubborn, brilliant.”

As he spoke, the image of Helene danced into his mind, teasing him with her laughter, enveloping him with her warmth. God, how he wanted her.

His mother’s lips twitched, a faint attempt at a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes. “I can see her giving you a lot of trouble.”

“She does,” William chuckled.

He thought of Helene—rallying her army of Rosieres, defending the prisoners with reckless courage, standing with quiet dignity at that brutal soirée. But she was more than those moments. So much more.

Plato once taught that the gods, in their wrath, split souls in two as punishment for hubris—and love was simply the search for one's missing half. To a young man trained in logic and artillery, the idea had once seemed laughable.

But now he knew better. Helene hadn’t carried the other half of his soul. She had stolen the best part of it.

And the thought of a life beyond her garret, beyond her presence—was no life at all.

“With her, I understand happiness.”

“She sounds dreamy.”

“Dreamy,” William repeated, the word slipping from his lips with a reverence that surprised even him.

Once, he had chased her because of a dream—an image that haunted his sleep, a sprite he couldn’t touch. She had been a symbol, a fantasy. But now?

Now, she was the dream.

Not the ghostly wisp of longing that vanished at dawn, but the living embodiment of every hope he hadn’t dared admit. She had become his dream of joy. Of peace. Of home.

Clouds drifted by in the distance, pieces from Morpheus’s realm floating lazily across the sky. Seagulls called out, their cries mingling with the rhythmic crash of waves. Helene would like it here. The thought struck him, and it became an imperative—he had to show her the ocean.

His mother sighed, the sound weak, resigned. “It will not be easy to forget her.”

Her frail hand trembled as she tried to adjust the blanket on her lap.

William stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. “Forget her?" His voice caught in his throat. "Why would I—”

“You cannot mean to prolong this." The smile faded from his mother’s lips. "Your legacy won’t survive the scandal.”

William backed away. “How dare you talk to me about scandal? You live with a woman.”

“No one cares if a dowager retires from society. They simply ignore me.” A rough cough rattled her chest. “But you are the duke.”

“My father was the duke as well.” His voice came out grating and bitter.

“Your father was a good man. He loved you.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “He doesn’t deserve this blow to his lineage.”

“Father was a good man, and yet you left him. You left all of us.”

William pressed his temple as a long-buried memory resurfaced with painful clarity. He was a boy again, running through the corridors in a blind panic, searching for his mother, only to find her bedchamber empty, her gowns gone, her jewelry missing. His father offered a hollow command: ‘We don’t say her name in this house.’

“Do you think it was easy?” she croaked, her voice breaking as she reached out to him with a trembling hand. “I think about you every day. I love you so much. But it is too late to resolve the past. I will take my sorrows to the grave.”

Her hand fell back to her lap, and she closed her eyes, a look of profound sorrow settling over her features. “Before you make a mistake that will haunt you, remember this—Passion, this fuel that burns in your breast and mine, flares high but dies quickly—”

“No.” William gritted his teeth. “I’m not fickle—”

She coughed, her chest bowing with the effort.

Why had he provoked her? He helped her sit up, steadying her as she struggled to catch her breath.

She caught his hand, her grip strong despite her weakness, her gaze sparking with a flicker of the determination she once had. “I have little time left,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “Before I go, you must promise me never to see her again.”