Sequel: Firebrand ›
Hunters
Honor
There had been times that Vaughan had woken, but remained in bed just to keep Lecia in his arms. There was, however, a period of time he’d had to leave her and prepare for their journey to Lekenbourgh. He’d had the servants pack her a bag and bring to his room a set of clothes to wear as they travelled. He sent a request to the train station to hold seats, and wrote out letters to his associates that he would be unavailable for a time. It was all terribly boring, and the entire time he felt guilty for leaving his wife.
She was still asleep when he returned to her. Vaughan climbed back into bed and enveloped her in his arms once again. It pained him that she would ever have to wake up and feel the misery of loss, and he was worried that she would spark a war between them if she was unable to cope with it; he would not let her turn to alcohol again, and he was determined to protect her from herself.
Her even breaths had put him to sleep. When he awoke, there was nothing against his chest and he sat up with a start to look for her. She was at the window, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, her loose black hair curled down her back and past her hips. It occurred to him that he’d never seen her hair look so beautiful; even when it was left long, it was tied in braids, or twisted in a ribbon, but, as it fell so effortlessly, he would never like to see it any other way.
The gentleman scolded himself; it was a poor time to be impressed by his wife’s beauty. Even as her back was turned to him, he knew the stricken face of loss that would greet him: he’d seen it before.
“Lecia,” he called her carefully. She flinched, surprised by his voice, but didn’t look around to see him. The Duke pulled himself out of bed and slowly made his way over to his wife. He stood behind her, the cool glass reflecting her resigned countenance.
“I’ve made travel arrangements on the train; we’ll have to leave soon,” he said.
She still wore his bedclothes, and although she was clean her breath still hinted of the drinks she’d had.
“I can’t go,” she croaked. It was an aching task to move even a single muscle. As the tears had run out, so had the effervescence that sustained her.
The impulse to hold her had become beyond Vaughan’s control; he turned her around to face him and cloaked her in his arms tight enough for them both to know he would never let her go.
“I will carry you if I must,” he countered. After a moment, he loosened his hold. “We must dress; our bags are packed and ready. Izzy brought you a gown to wear. Shall I call for her, or can we manage?”
Lecia peered around the room to see one of her dresses laid out on the bench at the end of the bed. It was a tea gown only somewhat suitable for mourning until such a time more appropriate clothes could be found.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” she whispered. After all, the tea style did not require the extensive stays or cinching, not that Lecia had ever truly been a slave to tight lacing fashions.
“I’ll leave you, then; I need to change as well,” Vaughan said, letting her go. “I’ll just be in the other room if you need me.” He left her to clothe himself for the journey, but he’d wanted so badly to stay.
It was a long and arduous trip. The Duke was not fond of trains, even despite the luxurious accommodations that were always made available for him. Perhaps it was the humble upbringing that his grandparents had offered, or maybe it was just his distrust for a driver he could not see.
Though he was stiff with nausea, Lecia was his priority. While Vaughan could not sleep, his wife spent a majority of the journey with her eyes closed. She had slept so much in the last few days, but he could see the heaviness of her existence. Even at rest, her breathing was laborious. So, he watched in anguish as tears fell in her dreams, as her entire body wracked for air. It was a selfish pain of wanting to be the only one who could feel suffering, yet it was not unwarranted.
They were met at the train station by a carriage sent by Henry. Vaughan ushered Lecia into the coach. The northern sunlight was cold, but, even as his Duchess was forsaken, the Duke could see how well it suited her. She had been dressed in her most appropriate attire—a flowing dove grey gown overlaid with deep purple tulle and secured at the waist with a sash of aubergine silk—and with the melancholy climate of Yorkshire, it merely darkened the tone of sadness in her eyes and deepened the gauntness of her heart. Even still, the beautiful velvet purpura overcoat Vaughan knew she had once favored now threatened to swallow her fragile body whole. For a moment, he thought that perhaps she wanted it to.
As they jostled in their seats while the horseman raced them to her home, Lecia appeared as limp and hollow as a freshly downed grouse. It was this observation that allowed Vaughan to realize that his wife was not simply mourning. She, somehow, held herself accountable for this loss. He could not for the life of him imagine why. Admittedly, everyone would cope with death in their own way, but to assign yourself blame for something that happened so many miles away…
Seeing as he had never even heard of Lekenbourgh, let alone its Baron Vasyl Harper, Vaughan was entirely unsure of what to expect upon their arrival. He briefly scolded himself for never inquiring about it with his wife. The subject would have made many of their early interactions that much easier. Had he always been so egocentric when wooing women? Not without cause, he realized. After all, it hadn’t exactly been his charismatic nature that attracted the opposite sex.
The structure was not unique. It was, perhaps, somewhat more elegant than other ancient castles the Duke had visited in the north, but only because of very obvious renovations. Knowing what he did about the Lady of the estate, Vaughan ventured a guess that she’d had a hand in fixing the place to her taste. It had likely needed some maintenance if what Lecia had said were true, that her parents had been the first inhabitants of the barony in ages.
It was an expanse of edifices, some in outstanding ruin, others attractively mortared with crisp corners. In its day, the conglomeration of Lekenbourgh must have been either a transcendent haven or a frequent victim, for the landscape offered no shelter from the elements or attack. Settled in the midst of rolling emerald hills and moorlands of animate heather, Lekenbourgh should have seemed so blatantly out of place, but it’s stones and smoke did not jut out of the earth unkindly. Seeing it now, Vaughan finally understood Lecia’s contempt for the city and unexpected disregard for finery. The Harpers were privileged, of course, but even for a man who’d been a quaint boy in faraway Itton, Wales, this plot of Yorkshire was wild. Wild in the way of being unfathomable, dreamlike, and otherworldly. Finally, his wife’s magic made sense.
A small part of Vaughan hoped that returning to her home would awaken the liveliness she’d lost. It seemed, however, that the opposite were true. As the pulled up to the main keep, he felt the wind roil through the grass and exhaust even his own breath. A storm was on its way in, complete with thunder and lightning. Luckily, there weren’t many trees.
They walked into the melancholy house together, the Duchess hunched under her husband’s arm. Her brother-in-law greeted them with a faint smile. Vaughan knew that his cousin had come alone, his wife regretfully immobilized by the growing life inside of her. His purpose was to help settle affairs, and it was now his duty, as it had come to light that the letters patent that had granted Lekenbourgh to Nikolay Herasymenko in 1796 did not specify that a male heir should inherit the titles and properties. So, Zora Agnes Fenner was now a Baroness by right, her husband an overnight Baron before even inheriting his own intended title. Lecia looked even more ill when she heard the news.
The Lady Florence was nowhere to be seen. As Henry got to explaining that, in fact, Vasyl had been buried nearly a week ago—apparently customary to his family that there must only be two days between death and funeral—Vaughan felt his own wife slip away.
Firstly, my sincerest apologies for dropping off of the face of the earth. This last semester was brutal, but it's over now and the summer is mine. I'm hoping to maybe finish this story by August. I have the rest of it planned out, it's just a matter of writing it now. I'm not making any promises, though. I still have to work! But thanks for sticking around. I'm working on the next part right now, and I want to get that to you as quick as possible. Hopefully it's a little longer, too.
She was still asleep when he returned to her. Vaughan climbed back into bed and enveloped her in his arms once again. It pained him that she would ever have to wake up and feel the misery of loss, and he was worried that she would spark a war between them if she was unable to cope with it; he would not let her turn to alcohol again, and he was determined to protect her from herself.
Her even breaths had put him to sleep. When he awoke, there was nothing against his chest and he sat up with a start to look for her. She was at the window, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, her loose black hair curled down her back and past her hips. It occurred to him that he’d never seen her hair look so beautiful; even when it was left long, it was tied in braids, or twisted in a ribbon, but, as it fell so effortlessly, he would never like to see it any other way.
The gentleman scolded himself; it was a poor time to be impressed by his wife’s beauty. Even as her back was turned to him, he knew the stricken face of loss that would greet him: he’d seen it before.
“Lecia,” he called her carefully. She flinched, surprised by his voice, but didn’t look around to see him. The Duke pulled himself out of bed and slowly made his way over to his wife. He stood behind her, the cool glass reflecting her resigned countenance.
“I’ve made travel arrangements on the train; we’ll have to leave soon,” he said.
She still wore his bedclothes, and although she was clean her breath still hinted of the drinks she’d had.
“I can’t go,” she croaked. It was an aching task to move even a single muscle. As the tears had run out, so had the effervescence that sustained her.
The impulse to hold her had become beyond Vaughan’s control; he turned her around to face him and cloaked her in his arms tight enough for them both to know he would never let her go.
“I will carry you if I must,” he countered. After a moment, he loosened his hold. “We must dress; our bags are packed and ready. Izzy brought you a gown to wear. Shall I call for her, or can we manage?”
Lecia peered around the room to see one of her dresses laid out on the bench at the end of the bed. It was a tea gown only somewhat suitable for mourning until such a time more appropriate clothes could be found.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” she whispered. After all, the tea style did not require the extensive stays or cinching, not that Lecia had ever truly been a slave to tight lacing fashions.
“I’ll leave you, then; I need to change as well,” Vaughan said, letting her go. “I’ll just be in the other room if you need me.” He left her to clothe himself for the journey, but he’d wanted so badly to stay.
It was a long and arduous trip. The Duke was not fond of trains, even despite the luxurious accommodations that were always made available for him. Perhaps it was the humble upbringing that his grandparents had offered, or maybe it was just his distrust for a driver he could not see.
Though he was stiff with nausea, Lecia was his priority. While Vaughan could not sleep, his wife spent a majority of the journey with her eyes closed. She had slept so much in the last few days, but he could see the heaviness of her existence. Even at rest, her breathing was laborious. So, he watched in anguish as tears fell in her dreams, as her entire body wracked for air. It was a selfish pain of wanting to be the only one who could feel suffering, yet it was not unwarranted.
They were met at the train station by a carriage sent by Henry. Vaughan ushered Lecia into the coach. The northern sunlight was cold, but, even as his Duchess was forsaken, the Duke could see how well it suited her. She had been dressed in her most appropriate attire—a flowing dove grey gown overlaid with deep purple tulle and secured at the waist with a sash of aubergine silk—and with the melancholy climate of Yorkshire, it merely darkened the tone of sadness in her eyes and deepened the gauntness of her heart. Even still, the beautiful velvet purpura overcoat Vaughan knew she had once favored now threatened to swallow her fragile body whole. For a moment, he thought that perhaps she wanted it to.
As they jostled in their seats while the horseman raced them to her home, Lecia appeared as limp and hollow as a freshly downed grouse. It was this observation that allowed Vaughan to realize that his wife was not simply mourning. She, somehow, held herself accountable for this loss. He could not for the life of him imagine why. Admittedly, everyone would cope with death in their own way, but to assign yourself blame for something that happened so many miles away…
Seeing as he had never even heard of Lekenbourgh, let alone its Baron Vasyl Harper, Vaughan was entirely unsure of what to expect upon their arrival. He briefly scolded himself for never inquiring about it with his wife. The subject would have made many of their early interactions that much easier. Had he always been so egocentric when wooing women? Not without cause, he realized. After all, it hadn’t exactly been his charismatic nature that attracted the opposite sex.
The structure was not unique. It was, perhaps, somewhat more elegant than other ancient castles the Duke had visited in the north, but only because of very obvious renovations. Knowing what he did about the Lady of the estate, Vaughan ventured a guess that she’d had a hand in fixing the place to her taste. It had likely needed some maintenance if what Lecia had said were true, that her parents had been the first inhabitants of the barony in ages.
It was an expanse of edifices, some in outstanding ruin, others attractively mortared with crisp corners. In its day, the conglomeration of Lekenbourgh must have been either a transcendent haven or a frequent victim, for the landscape offered no shelter from the elements or attack. Settled in the midst of rolling emerald hills and moorlands of animate heather, Lekenbourgh should have seemed so blatantly out of place, but it’s stones and smoke did not jut out of the earth unkindly. Seeing it now, Vaughan finally understood Lecia’s contempt for the city and unexpected disregard for finery. The Harpers were privileged, of course, but even for a man who’d been a quaint boy in faraway Itton, Wales, this plot of Yorkshire was wild. Wild in the way of being unfathomable, dreamlike, and otherworldly. Finally, his wife’s magic made sense.
A small part of Vaughan hoped that returning to her home would awaken the liveliness she’d lost. It seemed, however, that the opposite were true. As the pulled up to the main keep, he felt the wind roil through the grass and exhaust even his own breath. A storm was on its way in, complete with thunder and lightning. Luckily, there weren’t many trees.
They walked into the melancholy house together, the Duchess hunched under her husband’s arm. Her brother-in-law greeted them with a faint smile. Vaughan knew that his cousin had come alone, his wife regretfully immobilized by the growing life inside of her. His purpose was to help settle affairs, and it was now his duty, as it had come to light that the letters patent that had granted Lekenbourgh to Nikolay Herasymenko in 1796 did not specify that a male heir should inherit the titles and properties. So, Zora Agnes Fenner was now a Baroness by right, her husband an overnight Baron before even inheriting his own intended title. Lecia looked even more ill when she heard the news.
The Lady Florence was nowhere to be seen. As Henry got to explaining that, in fact, Vasyl had been buried nearly a week ago—apparently customary to his family that there must only be two days between death and funeral—Vaughan felt his own wife slip away.
Firstly, my sincerest apologies for dropping off of the face of the earth. This last semester was brutal, but it's over now and the summer is mine. I'm hoping to maybe finish this story by August. I have the rest of it planned out, it's just a matter of writing it now. I'm not making any promises, though. I still have to work! But thanks for sticking around. I'm working on the next part right now, and I want to get that to you as quick as possible. Hopefully it's a little longer, too.