White Lie

21st February, 1899. That was the last time Lucas saw her.

Almyra was still heartbreakingly beautiful as she had been the previous two times she wore white gowns. He remembered the other times just as clearly. His memories of her would never deteriorate, nor could time wash away the fabric of memories oven in his mind.

The first encounter had been on his seventeenth birthday.

The Duke recalled how he thought the girl was a mysterious princess who graced him with her presence at his birthday ball. An absurd thought, he knew. Her ball gown was of the best quality everything from the material to the delicate beaded patterns was obviously crafted by a set of skilled hands. Her face, so pure and innocent, was as pale as porcelain. At a certain point, he did wonder if he had been imagining a china doll in the middle of the ballroom. The lack of interactions between her and the guests supported his doubt.

And yet, despite all, young Lucas found himself following the girl as she retreated out of the room. Back then, he had convinced himself it was because he was suspicious of the girl in that she might be a spy sent by his business rival. Parties were always the best way to enter the manor.

Looking back on it, perhaps he had already been attracted to her then. It could’ve been how she stood amidst the crowd, alone and isolated, unlike most of the ladies that kept talking and dancing, like a butterfly visiting flower after flower.

Her unknown identity did not trouble Lucas in the slightest. The ball was, after all, dedicated for him to find the future Duchess, courtesy of his elder sister, Nora, who was married to the Duke of Cambridge.

Though Lucas loved his sister and appreciated everything she had done for him ever since their parents had passed away in a fire, she was always too anxious about his romance life-or rather, his lack of one. Being a duke didn’t mean he didn’t have anything to do and Lucas preferred to focus on maintaining the status they were in for the sake of their family. Despite that, Lucas was still sought after by many girls for his wealth and looks, and their passionate enthusiasm was exactly what repelled the duke.

Almyra, however, was different.

She always had been.

Walking into the now deserted sunroom, Lucas continued to let the memories rush through him, grasping greedily on every single detail. This was the very place she had wandered into that night. It was almost unnerving that the time now matched that of his memory, but to Lucas, it was a welcoming setting.

The night was young with shades of solid blue in the sky, in between the pastel azure and deep navy.
Since the lights were unlit, the darkness closed onto the glass box. To some, the dimming would have
been a suffocating pressure, but to her, it was cozy.

Lucas chuckled, remembering the unique answer. If he closed his eyes, perhaps he could see the scene again.

So he did.

“Are you lost, miss?” Lucas held back the frown that threatened to form. He had to be a gentleman at all times, even if annoyed by the uninvited wanderer. Did the girl not know what proper manner was? And to think he was attracted to her beauty at a point…

“Oh! I’m sorry,” the girl spun around, her gown forming a perfect circle. Her voice rang lightly like bell-chimes in his ears. Like an angel lost in the mortal realm, her expression had genuine confusion, surprise, and maybe a hint of fear. “I thought the room was really cozy. I wasn’t aware…”

Lucas decided to believe her, for now.

“It’s all right,” he smiled politely, offering a hand to her. “May I escort you back to the party?”

Growing impatient as she debated whether to take the offer or not, he waited patiently for the girl to take his hand. Her face was like an open book; displaying all her inner emotions. Only a few seconds later did he begin to realize what the problem was.

“Forgive me, miss, I have forgotten to introduce myself,” he took his hand back. Pressing his left hand across his abdomen, he scraped and bowed. “My name is Lucas Riddle, Duke of Grantham.”

Lucas knew his suspicion was right when the girl appeared to be in shock and fumbled into a curtsy.
His lips unconsciously curled upward at the corner into a small smirk.

"My name is Almyra Winter, daughter of Count Winter…" she hastily replied. Obviously she was very nervous. Not only had her actions betrayed that, but her voice fading showed how uncertain of herself she was.

Cute.

Finally taking up his offer, Alymra placed her hand onto Lucas’. Her hand was smaller than his, as expected, and far softer, as if the tiny hand was boneless. Giving her a smile, Lucas leaned down and kissed the back of her hand.

Almyra’s cheeks stayed a rosy tinge for a few minutes.

Opening his eyes with a sigh, Lucas left the now darker sunroom. He traced the path they had taken, and parted when he reached the stairs. He hadn’t any intention of reliving the rest of that night. What was the purpose? They had parted ways afterwards as well.

Their lives should have been parallel lines after that. But their fates intertwined more than Lucas would have ever expected. Undeniably, there was a mutual attraction between the two, hence the eventual development of romance.

He was young and foolish then, but it was a choice he didn’t regret.

Although the Winters were of a lower rank than him, it mattered not for Lucas. A noble was a noble, and thus the potential resistance was liminal. Besides, his desperate sister was more than happy to witness him in love, even if his intelligence did seem to reduce to silliness. And with her help, Lucas thought his—as well as Alymra’s—future was ensured. No one could survive his sister’s fiery temper. (Other than the Duke of Cambridge himself. Quite phenomenal, Lucas had to admit.)

It could’ve been a dream. It would’ve—should’ve—been.

Yet…
The wooden door screeched as Lucas pushed it open. Illuminated with silver light of the shy crescent moon, the serenity of the room suited him well. Additional lighting from the chandelier wasn’t needed.

The room was grand like the rest of his manor, only its emptiness marked the difference. The only furniture was an antique cupboard at the end of the room and the chair in the center, placed in front of a drawing stand. On it, a painting was hidden by a piece of grey drapery. To the left, a dome-shaped entrance, lined with finely carved rosewood that contrasted the white walls, led to a bay window, which was surrounded by three rectangular windows, extending from the ceiling to a foot above the ground. The old crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the room, pale blue skies painted on the ceiling.

Once he stopped by the chair, he tugged the cloth away from the painting, revealing an unfinished work. The painting showed the side profile of Almyra, her head slightly tilted downwards, looking at the bundle of roses in her hand.

The second time he had seen her in a white dress was on her wedding day.

The painting was rough against his fingertips. Unlike his memories, the figure was vague on the painting, details unclear and blurred with colours. No details gave clue to the person’s identity. Only he could know who the mysterious maiden was. He couldn’t let anyone know. It was his most private secret.

He still loved Almyra, Countess of Druitt.

Before Almyra had confessed to him, he knew that it was part of her plan to get close to him and gain his trust. She thought she had hid everything from him, and that she was the ultimate victor of the dangerous trap. Lucas, immersed with love, pretended along, hoping Almyra would prove herself to him. He wanted to trust her.

She failed him.

When he noticed the papers he had left purposefully on his desk missing, he knew it must have been Almyra’s work. Fortunately, the forgery he prepared was as good as the real ones. It was only luck that she had mistaken the documents. Upon the confrontation, the girl admitted the theft. He remembered pushing a vase off the table from anger. The clear shattering sound still rang sharply in his ears after all those years.

She was the fiancée of Victor Lockhart, Count of Druitt. It had all been a lie, a jest. She spoke of some type of revenge, but it was all gibberish to Lucas.

They had not spoken since then, not even at her wedding. He nodded at her, and that was it. If Lucas could have it his way, he wouldn’t have even gone there. Nora had to drag him, after the fruitless attempts of threatening and yelling, forcing the duke to attend the ceremony.

“Show her you are doing well, no, terrific now that she’s out of your life!” Nora had told him. Despite being fully aware she was trying to help him to get through the problem, he had snorted in response to his sister’s comment, which resulted in violence from his beloved sister.

There wasn’t any anger when he saw Alymra again. Rather, his heart ached at the sight. She was wearing a white dress like the first time he met her. Her collar bones and shoulders were covered, unlike the last time, and the dress was more simplistic instead of the embellished bell-shape of the ball gown. Still multi-layered, the outermost layer of the skirt formed an elaborated design on the back of her dress, resting above the bump. Sewn with rose patterns, the bodice was relatively simple in style, yet subtle with its complicated handicraft. Her golden locks piled on top of her hair in a trendy bun, covered with a piece of long, lacy veil.

Once upon a time, Lucas had thought he would be the groom of that scene, waiting at the end of the isle as he watched Almyra approached him in a white dress. Never did he think the scene would be an eyesore. For once, pain had reached an unbearable level, and he wanted nothing more than to rip his bloody heart out and throw it into the stack of presents for the newlyweds.

Her smile wasn’t supposed to be for him. Her beauty was only for him, and him only…

Who was he to decide anymore?

As soon as the ceremony was over, Lucas was the first to get out of the church. There must have been something wrong with the church, because he felt that breathing became more and more difficult.

The duke was never sure when he had created the artwork. All he recalled was by the time he was conscious of the person he was painting, he had lost his will to continue. And even though he should’ve hated her, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. The lone option was to keep it from the world.

Every now and then, Lucas took some time to visit the painting.

Staring at the incomplete portrait, he fell back onto the chair with another sigh. If possible, he wished he would never have to see Almyra after the wedding—somehow, he knew the next meeting would have an ill ending.

The last time he had seen her in a white dress was early that day, at her funeral. Nine months and eighteen days after the previous meeting.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing at all.

Lucas could feel nothing when he gazed upon the maiden laid in the coffin. Clad in a white dress with trumpet sleeves, the edges lined with ruffles, the only design it had. Like a nightgown, the dress flowed down from above her waistline, her petite shape shrouded. She was like Juliet, dead and alive.

Seeing her lying peacefully in the mahogany box, his mind drew blank. He wanted to touch her again, to feel the soft skin in his hands, but his body froze. Struggling to part his lips, the effort was useless. No sound was made, no word uttered. He couldn’t even speak her name.

She was truly lost now. Gone.

It was the last time he would see her.

‘No…’ Lucas mumbled in soft determination. His deep brown eyes gleamed like a shooting star, a bright light drew in the dark, eventually falling into the void. ‘It shan’t be…’

1st January, 1900.

Nora’s frown deepened as she ventured further into the famous Harlaxton Manor, their family house. She had only left for a few months, yet it was like she hadn’t returned in eons. So quiet the manor was, it was unnerving. Her brother was not keen on celebrations, and she didn’t expect him to decorate the manor either, more so when her little brother was still drowning in grief. But this…even the manor itself was filled with sadness. Clenching the paper in her hand, she didn’t know how to tell Lucas the truth of Almyra’s death.

In official reports, Almyra died from crossfire in London. Coincidentally, Lucas, bringing Nora with him, was in London as well that day for business. Trusting her intuition, Nora decided to investigate into the unlikely accident.

With the help of her husband, she solved the case in the end. It had been all Victor’s plot to kill Lucas. Unknown to him, Almyra decided against the plan. Although he was her husband, she had developed doubts for him, including the reason for her family business’ downfall. She had her servant dressed how Lucas might and went to the designated café Lucas was to go to. Nora was glad she had gone ahead of Lucas, so she could prevent her brother from witnessing the scene of blood-stained snow.

Finally reaching the sunroom—now a restricted area—Nora pushed open the door gently, being careful not to disturb anyone.

Light flood into the room, showing parts of the now abandoned wing. Windows covered with giant black cloths, no sunlight could penetrate through the barriers. Nora knew Lucas had replaced the plants with fresh ones every week, so she wasn’t surprise to discover emerald green plants inside the dark room. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim illumination of candle lights.

She almost gasped in fear.

Her brother stood in the middle of the room, his back facing the entrance. He didn’t seem to notice the sudden rays of light. Without looking at his face, Nora knew Lucas had become thinner, paler, weaker, and ultimately, older.

Before him was a marble statue of Almyra, which she had initially mistaken as the spirit of the girl. Perfectly crafted, it showed the countess in her youth. If memories served, the dress she wore was the one Nora saw during Lucas’ seventeenth birthday ball, the white just as pure. The statue had eyes of a lamb’s, glancing upward timidly. It had one hand slightly extended, as if to hold onto something.

“Are you lost, miss?”

Nora thought Lucas had forgotten her, until she realized Lucas was still facing the statue.

Silence hung in the air, his words sunk bit by bit. Nora waited for a while before trying to approach her brother, but she stopped as he smooth voice resonated in the room once more.

“It’s all right,” Lucas smiled sweetly at the unmoving sculpture. His eyes, though now with dark circles beneath them, held the same warmth as they used to, just for Almyra. “May I escort you back to the party?”

The duchess didn’t comprehend what was going on. It was like Lucas was talking to his work to release his sorrow, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was scripted. There was nothing for her to make sense of. He was in a place where she could fit into.

Bowing to the still figure, Lucas held out a hand to it. “Forgive me, miss. I have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Lucas Riddle.” Their hands linked, his warm fingers held the cold marble hand.

Nora could predict what the girl would’ve said if she was alive. She would’ve answered in a matching shy voice. “My name is Almyra Winter, daughter of Count Winter…”

But anyone could tell it was an impossible dream.

Tear fell from Lucas’ eyes.

Closing the door behind her noiselessly, Nora left the manor in a hurry. The paper in her hand crumpled under her grip. She tore Victor’s confession into pieces, ordering a servant to burn them all to ashes.

Outside, the snow cascaded from heavens above, burying everything, from leafless trees to dirt-covered roads. She could briefly remember it was snowing the day Almyra died.

Unaware of her actions, Nora stared off into the direction of London. She whispered quietly to the emptiness in front of her, expecting nothing in return.

“You really did love him, didn’t you?”