Chapter 7

Moments before...

Nathaniel closed the door with restrained fury. Bringing clenched fists to his mouth, he shut his eyes tightly. Could there be an even more disagreeable woman in all the earth than Mrs. Melbourne? Scoffing, he smoothed down his coat. Of all things he hated most in the world it had to be insufferable women who thought themselves holy, inflicting pain on helpless souls. Sure, his reputation consisted of some undesirable connotations, but unjust and crude would never define him.

Swallowing deeply, he tamed the fire raging in his veins as a dispiriting thought settled upon him. Yes, there could be someone more disagreeable than Mrs. Melbourne...the daughter. Oh, but he would handle her immediately. All be damned if Madeline thought she would bring her hellish upbringing to his household. Secret or no secret, if she ever dared behave in the same fashion Mrs. Melbourne had just behaved, he would send her packing back to her demon of a mother.

Nathaniel flinched stepped from the door and flinched. A loud clapping sound halted his steps. The sound was definite. Unmistakable. Someone was slapped. As much as he felt Martha capable of thrashing Mrs. Melbourne, he accepted it not to be the case.

Martha's face swirled into his mind as he remembered her dulled eyes widening when he mentioned they met at the bakery. His blood went cold. Could he have been any more stupid? Of course she would get into trouble! What spare time did maidservants ever have to their disposal? But most importantly, what disposable wages did they possess to spend so frivolously? And of all trivial places, in a bakery? Mrs. Melbourne must've been beside herself. What a foolish mistake.

A slight grin welcomed itself onto Nathaniel's lips upon recalling her slip of words, but it quickly faded as his mind offered another lingering image: her sad eyes. Recalling the shock in her stare when he first entered the room, they barely held any expression at all. Almost like a wavering candle. But could she be blamed? How could her spirit not wean with thrashing after thrashing on her undoubtedly soft skin…

Nathaniel's eyes widened. Soft skin? Where did that come from?

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he forced himself from the door. Air. He needed air. Perhaps it was the brandy still attacking his senses, or the country air—

A sharp thump emanated followed by a hollow thud, both of which gripped Nathaniel's stomach. And suddenly before he could think further there was a weak groan. His fists clenched, but he forced himself from the door. He had to keep walking. It didn't concern him. Yet, before his next blink, he found himself relinquishing all proper conduct. He pushed the door open.

A trembling Martha lay on the floor cradling her cheek, while her other hand nursed her ribcage. His blood congealed, eyes cut viciously into the demon towering over her.

Mrs. Melbourne recoiled. She gasped, seizing Martha’s arm and yanking her to standing. “My lord!”

Thrusting the shaking girl behind her, Mrs. Melbourne managed, "Is there a p-p-problem?” while absently adjusting a curl back into place. Nathaniel blinked, expecting them to be snakes.

He looked back to Martha. Her already sad eyes glistened with refused tears. She inhaled, but grimaced in pain, causing Nathaniel to inwardly cringe. She had been hit...undoubtedly kicked as well. He gulped down his rage. He had to speak before his thoughts overtook his mouth,

"A word Mrs. Melbourne," he heard himself speak, "In private." The frigidness of his voice surprised even him. Normally a man of seldom emotion, Nathaniel found his fingers wound into tight fists. Though he would never strike a woman, he was beginning to think Mrs. Melbourne as anything but.

Mrs. Melbourne waved Annabelle away.

Nodding weakly, Martha shuffled her shrunken frame across the crimson carpet in his direction. The sight of her trembling hands clasped tightly at her stomach, as if holding each other for strength, rippled through him. He was responsible. She was beaten and scared, and he was an accessory to the crime. His eyes never left her as she approached. He had to say something, anything that would temporarily ease her. But what could he say to show her she needn't be afraid?

He cleared his throat. "You will find Logan in the gardens," he spoke, meaning to soften his voice, but the tone came out exceedingly harsh. The anger was too far gone.

She stopped beside him, a bleeding lip greeting him. The urge to reach for her harmed mouth tugged at him and equally surprised him. Since when did he want to comfort anyone? A maid of all beings. Resisting, he clenched his teeth, tightening his fists further.

"Yes, my Lord," she whispered, never lifting her eyes. With a weak curtsy, she vanished past him.

Once the slight click of the door marked her exit, Nathaniel exhaled silently, feeling a wave of relief flush through him. She was safe...if only for a moment, she was safe. But in turning back to Mrs. Melbourne, he swallowed a curse, thinking the same was not true for the old wench. He wouldn't hit her; No, he was gentleman after all. But words cut just the same if not deeper...

Mrs. Melbourne sat down, motioning to the chair beside hers. "Shall I ring for some tea?"

Nathaniel exhaled tightly. The only thing he could possibly imagine ringing was certainly not a bell.

Noting his blank stare, she sat back. "Well then, I suppose I should apologize for my less than favorable behavior."

"You needn't apologize to me," Nathaniel said, cutting her off in one breath. He took a moment to tame his rage. "Though, I can only hope such misconduct is not routine, especially for a....lady." He forced out the last word. 'Lady' was the more favorable option, though he paired it mentally with that of the canine species.

Mrs. Melbourne sat silent then erupted into a hypocritical giggle that soured his mouth. "Surely this isn't the first time you've seen a servant reprimanded." Darkness swept over her eyes as she crossed her hands atop her lap. "And tell me, my lord, do you normally protect your servants in such a manner?" Her gaze sharpened. “Or is there something you are seeking in return?"

Nathaniel’s whole body hardened. Opening his mouth, he shut it. He meant to speak, but every word that formed consisted of vocabulary he'd been trained never to utter in the presence of a lady.

Closing his eyes for a moment, hoping to rein in his etiquette, Nathaniel sighed. "Whatever you may be implying is of little to me. All I seek is a bit of discretion. Perhaps even some class," he spat, the disdain in his voice tangible. "I will not have my son subjected to such atrocities, especially by the people he will by sheer damnation call family. Certainly it is not the type of comportment I neither look forward to seeing nor will permit in my household. Believe me, we have our share of animals wandering around the estate to in turn have you daughter with her hellish upbringing join us as another."

Mrs. Melbourne's eyes widened, her composure on the verge of shattering. Opening her mouth to speak, Nathaniel cut her off. "Good day, Mrs. Melbourne."

Turning on his heels, he walked out and slammed the door just as sharply.

Walking down the hall in a blind fury Nathaniel spaced his breaths equally with his steps. The hanging pictures and crowded walls were but a never ending blur in his madness. What on earth had he just done? And for a servant girl? What possessed him?

"The gardens!" he growled at a poor servant girl, who coiled into a corner upon seeing his threatening frame. The terrified girl nearly fainted, but managed to raise a trembling arm in the direction of the double doors at the end of the hall. Reaching them in few strides, Nathaniel thrust himself into the open air. But the fresh air did nothing. The heat that scorched his veins burned the same as did the anger that crushed his chest. He needed to get further.

Stepping down onto the cobblestone path leading away from the house, his steps shattered the surrounding silence as he sought to move further and further away from Hades. There was no way he could marry into that repulsive family.

He reached the hedges in the outskirts of the gardens and gasped desperately for air. Sweat beaded in his pores as he stopped, frantically digging through his pockets. He had to find it.

Searching his vest pockets as the red and gold leaves draped upon his head, he didn't find it. Checking his trousers pockets, nothing. Nathaniel groaned, sure that his rage would devour him. What was he doing in that place with those atrocious people? Why on earth did he agree to such lunacy? And where was it?!

Madly reaching into his inner coat pocket, and seconds away from succumbing to the panic, his fingers fiddled inside the fabric until coming into contact with it. Sighing, he retrieved a single crimson ribbon, worn and tattered by time. Winding it obsessively about his knuckles, he let its sacred memory reel him back to center with each smooth rotation....slowly....slowly, as it did that very first time...

Sunlight peeked through the narrow spaces of the wooden fort door; shining straight onto Nathaniel's sleeping eyes.

"Dratted light," he murmured, blinking his eyes open. Noting the intensity of the light and the distinct scent of morning dew, he gathered it to be early morning. His heart sank. The carriages were more than likely arriving at his home, and the trunks were surely being loaded, all in preparation for his early morning departure. He would be leaving Richmond that morning, moving days away to London where his mother would assume her position as governess to the son of Julius Hamilton, Earl of Lanceford. Nathaniel sighed. His lordship had been kind to his mother, having offered her the position with no references, her only reference being Nathaniel himself. He would have to leave.

But no, there was no need to think more of it. There was still some time, Nathaniel thought just as a whispering sniffle gave way to a warm body nestled close to his side. Pushing the solemn thoughts of departure from his mind, Nathaniel propped himself on one elbow.

Instead of shielding his own eyes from the assaulting light, he moved his hand toward the beauty beside him, to assure the blinding light didn't wake her. Gazing down at her, the sight shattered him.

Sunlight gleamed against a tear trickling from Annabelle's eyes, running over the bridge of her nose and down onto her curled hand. Her swollen eyes fluttered in dream, but her reddened cheeks glistened with fresh tears. She had just fallen asleep, he gathered, after having been awake crying. But for how long? And why hadn't she woken him? The thought clenched his stomach, birthing a painful knot that sent him gasping for air. She cried, all alone, beside him. For him. Closing his eyes, the pain in his stomach traveled through his veins, puncturing his very soul.

How did he not hear her sobs, her whimpers? She should have woken him so he could have held her! But instead, she watched him sleep, while drowning in silent tears. Nathaniel cursed, and cursed again. He had told her to stay behind as he was only going to the fort to gather some of his things before leaving, but she insisted on going. Stubborn girl!

Chuckling through his own tears, he thought of how angry she would get whenever she didn't get her way. Oh how her face would flame! Aside from watching her sleep, he realized, her round flushed face was the second most beautiful sight in the world.

Brushing damp hairs from her forehead, he froze. Why hadn't he ever realized it, until a moment too late? How did he not notice that she had invaded every part of his day, of his life, of his thoughts, of his heart until the day he would have her no longer?

He sat up and buried his face in his hands, letting them drag down slowly until covering his mouth. It couldn't be. He couldn't be leaving. Not when he'd actually realized that lying beside him was his life outside of his body.

Nathaniel shook his head, his body rippled with a foreign coldness as if losing all strength. Every breath proved harder than the last and chaos ruled his brain. It was impossible! He would die without her! And if not, he would go mad, surely he would go mad!

Laying back to face her, he wanted to wake her, to see her golden green eyes brighter than the sunlight looking into his. But she had cried in silence and didn't wake him. Perhaps she too pulled at her hair, tugged at her dress, but still did not stir him. Did she not deserve the same? Should he not suffer his share of the pain?

Nathaniel trailed the tear down her cheek as if marking the haunting melody of an imaginary music box.  He let his hand journey to her auburn hair. Gently removing pin after pin until undoing the rigid bun that held her wondrous hair captive, Nathaniel untied the last of the captors...a single crimson ribbon. As her newly freed hair cascaded into an ocean of curls, he brought the ribbon to his nose. The sweet scent of honeysuckle sent the air surging back into his lungs as if riding in on a fiery chariot.

"My Annabelle, my dear Annabelle," he whispered against the ribbon until his words went silent along with his tears.

A shadow suddenly swept over them as someone stepped in front of the door, blocking the morning light. There was a light knock. Rising quickly to keep the knocks from waking Annabelle, Nathaniel wiped his tears roughly and opened the door.

"Mother?" His voice cracked. "M—mother, w-what are you doing here?"  Gripping the door tighter until splinters punctured his skin, he braced for the known answer.

His mother smiled compassionately. "Nathaniel, the carriages have arrived. We must go."

How the words lacerated him. His knees buckled under him. Holding on tighter to the tattered wooden door the splinters digging deeper, he hoped the pain in his hands would numb the tearing of his heart! How could love possibly be that painful? That torturous? That cruel?

Swallowing deeply, his chest locked achingly. He couldn't go. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

"Nathaniel—"

"Mother, I can't go. I can't."

"Nathaniel we must."

"No, I can't just leave her here," he attempted to explain, his argument as valid as it was desperate. "I will stay here with her and you can bring her mother. She is sleeping, and we mustn't wake her because…" His throat tightened. "Because she was crying, and if I wake her... I can't. We must let her sleep. I will stay here while you get her mother. And then we'll go. Then we'll go..." he repeated, each word cutting through him.

"Mrs. Frost is waiting just outside dear. We both came to get you children."   

Nathaniel shut his eyes, the softness of her voice only angering him more. How could his mother betray him so? Weren't mothers supposed to know their children better than the children themselves? How did she not know that he loved Annabelle? Why didn't she tell him so that he could have relished it before it was too late?

Pained with the realization that no argument could prevent the inevitable, Nathaniel froze. Hearing a sleepy moan from behind him, a sweeping desperation nearly devoured him. About to succumb to the madness, he clenched his fists...and felt it.

Looking down, the crimson ribbon remained tightly wound in his hand. Bringing it to his nose once more, he inhaled the soft scent of honeysuckle and rain, letting it slowly draw him back to center....slowly...slowly....

He lowered the scarlet laced hand and closed his eyes. Listening to the soft melody of Annabelle's steady breathing behind him he consciously fell into the same rhythm with his own breath. And in squeezing the ribbon once more, he stepped into the bright morning without once looking back...

"Martha! Martha! Look at this!" Logan's voice tore Nathaniel from his painful reverie. Sighing, his heart slowly resumed its normal rhythm, the same as Annabelle's gentle breathing that distant day.  Logan's innocent giggles echoed past him once more, blending with the hushing of the surrounding trees. Tucking the scarlet ribbon back securely by his heart, Nathaniel listened for his son's voice.

"It's a frog!" the small voice beamed. Nathaniel groaned. What was it about boys and frogs? Shaking his head, he tried to contain a slight smile. He would have to warn Martha of Logan's slight obsession with the slimy amphibians. Too many times had frogs found their way into Logan's bedroom, much to the dismay of their housekeeper, bless her aging soul.

Nathaniel followed the innocent laughter and found Logan at the garden's edge, just before it met with the surrounding forest. If heaven was to be found in visiting the hell that was the Melbourne house, Nathaniel believed it to be the serene countryside. London failed miserably at offering anything aside from noise, overcrowded streets and interrupted views.

Walking through the falling veil of floating leaves, he watched as Logan held a captive frog in the air. Trailing his eyes, the sight imprisoned him all the same. Sitting underneath the partly naked vines of a weeping willow was Martha, practically invisible. Nestled closely against the tree, her solemn figure barely radiated life. Though her face remained hidden from sight, Nathaniel could still see the back of her head and slender neck lowered towards her bent knees. Her rigid bun showed signs of weariness as rogue strands swayed in the passing breeze.

He moved closer. What a solitary and sad existence. Too often had he seen tormented servants, but the sight of Martha touched a different chord, almost as if striking a different instrument altogether.

The memory of her lying on the library floor nursing her battered ribs assaulted him. He cringed. What other barbarities had the poor girl experienced. But in cupping his mouth, he exhaled sharply finding comfort in one thought. For the time being, Martha was safe. He himself had secured that safety, even if only temporary. Swelling with pride, Nathaniel stepped forth and then stopped.

Perhaps he shouldn't bother her. She more than likely wanted to be alone. Besides, what would he say? And since when did approaching a maidservant become so monstrously difficult! He wasn't doing anything wrong. He was going to simply ask how she was fairing to which he would then explain what was expected of her as Logan's nurse and—

'..and assure her she was safe, his conscience whispered.

Nathaniel paused. Who said anything about safety? No, it wasn't that...well, not entirely. She was Logan's nurse, Nathaniel reminded his meddling conscience. Though provisionally, it was all the same. He had to make certain she was well enough to fulfill her duties Nathaniel finalized, pressing his feet forward on the golden path.

Nearing her, the passing winds died down when he heard an unmistakable sound. A whimper. He froze. She was crying.. How could he do anything with tears? He should go. Yes, he had no business there yet could not bring himself to leave.

Pacing in a pointless circle, he debated his options. He could leave. He could turn and walk away. Logan hadn't seen him, neither had Martha. If he left, he wouldn't have to deal with the tears. But weren't they just tears? And from a mere servant girl? Surely, he'd dealt with his share of tears from women of status and class with beauty to spare…

Not that Martha wasn't beautiful, his conscience offered again.

Nathaniel groaned inwardly. Her beauty was irrelevant. Only her tears were. He'd never dealt with genuine tears from a tortured girl. The only tears he'd encountered were from women who cried openly in hopes of gaining something, namely marriage. But he could toss a necklace at those vultures and their tears of distress would magically transform into tears of joy. Yet Martha cried alone, her restrained sobs rippling through him. It were as if she didn't want to cry, but couldn't possibly hold it any longer A necklace held no magic to her tears...but what did? And why did he care? Abandoning all cowardly thoughts, Nathaniel reached for his handkerchief. He couldn't leave.  Not when her cries reminded him so much of….

Annabelle…

Nathaniel swallowed. How would he ever reach her if his conscience battled him so relentlessly? But in looking out at the tortured girl, he realized his conscience was right. Perhaps subconsciously, his desperate need for Annabelle birthed a type of attachment to Martha. Yes, yes because not only did her tears remind him of his dearest Annabelle, but there was something singular about Martha. Almost as if in some strange manner, she indeed was—

Nathaniel cursed.  How could he think such barbarities? For Annabelle to be Martha? Truly! The difference in name being little in the matter, there was obviously that of appearance. For Annabelle to be reduced to the likes of Martha would warrant extreme sorrow, the kind of which not even the Melbourne’s could inflict. From past assessment, Annabelle would undoubtedly have grown to be much fuller, curves of which his hands could explore at his heart’s desire….

Martha whimpered once more, dragging Nathaniel back to present. He scoffed. Annabelle wouldn’t ever subject herself to the treatment of the Melbourne’s, no. Martha was but a shadow of life while Annabelle, well, she was life itself.  And besides, would Annabelle not recognize him while Martha had no knowledge of him, having said so herself at the bakery?

The matter was settled and before his conscience could attack again, he stepped behind Martha and cleared his throat.

"Martha," he spoke, but there was no sound. Clearing it with much more force, the growling sound boomed through the silence.

Martha jumped, startled. "My Lord!" she gasped. Rising quickly, she wiped her tears, instantly lowering her head, "Forgive me, I was…"

Her voice broke, fading into nothingness. Winded by the sight, Nathaniel could not tear his eyes from her damp cheeks, swollen eyes and bleeding lip. How on earth did he never consider leaving? She lifted her eyes curiously. Noting the silence, Nathaniel realized he hadn't yet spoken.

He shook his head. "Pardon me, I came to...to see…" Heavens, who had he come to see?

"Of course!" she nodded, turning away, "Logan—"

"No!" he cut her off firmly, startling her once more. Sighing, he closed his eyes momentarily. "No," he repeated with less gruff as he waved to an approaching Logan to continue playing. "I am not here to see Logan."

Martha turned swiftly, fingers flinching to her mouth. "Of-of-of course my lord, you must be looking for Miss Madeline. She is—”

"Let me guess, in her room pretending to read Homer?" His brow arched teasingly. "Hopefully she'll remember to hold it right side up."

Puzzled eyes shot up at him but fleetly lowered. "No, she isn't in her room my lord." She didn't smile. "She is—"

Carefully, he cut her off. "I'm not looking for her either, Martha."

Nathaniel eyed her. Would it really prove so bloody difficult to make her smile? Most girls in her position would already be trying to bed him, yet she looked as if his presence utterly terrified her. He couldn't have that. He had to show her she was safe...

He reached for her, but she stepped back.

" Don't be frightened of me.  I've simply come to see how you were," he said, his voice finally attaining an acceptable softness. A tender and caring softness.

Heaven help him...and her...