Edited

Summer of 1860

George Beaumont-Howard, Sixteenth Duke of Norfolk,
Bereft widower of the late Duchess of Norfolk, Lady Emily Elizabeth Beaumont-Howard, whose soul rests in the loving arms of God

My dear Emily,

None of this is right.

I always find myself awake in the most peculiar of hours, wondering what will happen if I ask you if this is the story you wanted. Surely you would not answer yes, would you? I think not. It has been years, my love. Such a long time that I have lost count of each painful second that passed by. I do not even know how I survived a single moment without you, how I could breathe without you here. Sometimes, I feel as if our son is the only reason that I have not gone mad, the only reason that I have not yet decided to end my own life. The wound you left in me has not scarred yet, darling. It has only festered. Your death made me feel as if my heart has been torn out and I am but a walking corpse, the luxury of your love's sustenance not afforded to me. There is still a gaping wound in my chest, and it refuses to cease its bleeding.

It is all very strange, how I find myself missing you. What we had was a whirlwind. The moment we met, I did not expect any of this. I did not expect to pine for a mere farm girl, and yet I do. I die every day because I remember how the time you gave me were the best years of my life.

While it is true that I am not one to have a sharp mind, but why, after nearly ten years, have I been able to recall every small detail of your face in stunning clarity? While I find most of those who are mourning wishing to do the same, I revile this ability. Did you curse me to feel guilty for as long as I drew breath? I should truly be thankful, but whenever I see you in my dreams, or whenever I uncover that old painting standing above the mantle, I see myself wishing to never have met you. If I did not, I can't bring myself to think that I would have even believed that this sort of pain was possible. How am I living through this? I ask that question every day, but no one seems to be the slightest bit interested in answering me.

It is unfair, for you to have entered my life and be swept away so
quickly.

Do you not even regret leaving so early?

If not for my sake, then at least for the sake of your son who does not remember the mother who loved and doted on him until her last breath. All I can do is tell him stories of you, but I do not feel that it is enough to do you justice. If there is one wish that you can grant me, it is that, please, allow your son to meet you. I am sure that you will be proud of him, for he has grown into a kind boy. I love him dearly, but I cannot stand the sight of him because he favours you so strongly. He has your unruly hair, and his eyes are just as strange as yours. Blue, green, and even grey in some light. If you can see him now, then I think that you will be smiling. I promised you I would not fail him, and I do not think I did too much of a bad job. He has a heart such as yours, and he has a quick wit to match. He is the only thing left that I hold dear, and I think that you would simply adore him, my love.

Do you miss me, my dear? I apologize for asking so many questions, but I blame you oftentimes because you left so many unanswered. I am a broken man. You left me in that state when you died, and I do not think that such damage can ever be fixed. I long for you every moment I draw breath, because whenever I look to any place that we have made a memory in, I find myself experiencing the most terrible of pains. It is not that your death caused me to die a thousand times, but that it is a knife to see any nook of this place and be reminded of any moment we spent together. It is that the memory of you kills me slowly every day.

It is always the smiles I remember, for a reason not yet known to me. I think that it is what causes the pain to worsen, because I know I won't ever see another one. Is where you are right now so far away that no matter how much I beg, you cannot hear me? Are you someplace distant with the Lord? He cannot seem to hear me either.

I may have told you this before, but in the short time that I spent with you, I had managed to fall so irrevocably in love with you. There is not a day that passes in which I do not think of you. Perhaps someday, I will see you again, but I must tell you farewell, for I am still very much uncertain as to when that may be.

Yours alone, now and forever,
George

George seals the letter with an audible sigh. For nigh on a decade now, it has always been him and an oil lamp in the sitting room, hearing nothing but the sound of a quill scratching on parchment. He does not enjoy the near-darkness, but he is afraid that if he were to miss one night of being in front of the fireplace, he would forget what she looked like.

Of course, it is still painful to be under the stare of his deceased wife's painted visage. That will not ever change.

"You truly had to be so oblivious, didn't you? You still are, you blasted woman. Gah, just let me move on! Twenty-eight, and still in mourning, where have you heard anything like that? It has been seven years!" He cuts his own outburst short when he sees that he has crushed the thin paper. It is strange that he has gotten angry right after writing such words of love and longing. He throws it into the fireplace with a grumble, hoping that it would turn into ash and stay like that.

Wherever the flames lead those perished words, he hopes that they will be presented to her. The smoke would rise to the heavens, and the absurdity of that statement is proof that he is powerless to change his predicament.

Not powerless, not truly. Simply unwilling. Anything he would do might change a memory of her, and that was why, at almost thirty, he is still a bachelor, albeit not an eligible one.

Seven years in mourning garb. Even the eldest churchgoers had worn their black gowns for two years at most. And all of them were ladies with hair as silver as his eyes! Not a man among them. No, he is the only man he knows that would not dazzle women with brightly coloured tailcoats every chance they got. And society poked fun of him for that. For mourning his wife. For having emotions. Despicable.

Emily's painted replica stares down at him, a constant reminder of a different life. A perfect one that was much too fleeting. He does not care about those cads from his former circles or the tittering vixens that eyes him from behind their fans. There are only two people he thought to care about. One of them is six feet underground and the other still needs warm milk to sleep.

Speaking of which, George hears the pitter-patter of little feet and does not even have enough time to look before he feels weight of a small body pouncing on him.

An immediate smile breaks out on his face as he sees his son grabbing at him.

"Papa, Papa! You will never guess what happened!" Raymond exclaims, scrambling for a seat beside his father.

George passes a hand through his son's hair, ruffling the already messy brown locks.

"I do not want to guess, Ray. I want you to be asleep. It is almost midnight. Your governess will throttle you if do not wake up in time. Besides, there is a storm rolling in. I would not want for you to hear the thunder." Emily was afraid of thunder, too, he thinks. She used to cower under a blanket or hide in the closet until he brought her out and carried her to a safe place. Raymond is the same.

"But Papa! There was a really nice lady in my dreams, and she looked just like Mama! Look! They even have the same eyes!" he says, pointing at the painting of Emily.

"Ah, she must have visited you to tell you that she doesn't like it when her little boy is unruly." He tries to mask the heartache in his voice, but it attracts Raymond's attention, and his small arms are around him in an instant.

"No, Mama hugged me just like this and told me how much she loved me."

The sting of tears makes George look away abruptly. He couldn't cry in front of his son.

"Oh? And how much was that?" His voice trembles despite him trying to keep a light, happy tone.

"Thiiiiis much!" Raymond stretches out his arms as much as he can. "And even more! She told me to take care of you, too! I will, Papa." A toothy grin follows as George blinks away tears. He feels as if his heart were being crushed under a carriage's wheel, but he forces himself to smile. He is the only one there for Raymond now, he has to be strong.

"And you will. I believe you will. Mama didn't need to tell you how much she loves you. I can. She loves you with all her heart, do you know that?"

Raymond nods enthusiastically.

"Come on, now. This is no time for you to be awake," George says, hoisting little Raymond up. He is the most precious thing in his life now, that was why there are no nannies to make sure Raymond stayed in bed. He gladly does it himself.

A clap of thunder resounds, causing Ray to jump and scramble up onto his father's shoulders. George yanks the boy back into his arms and thinks wistfully about how many times Emily had done the same thing, though her weight usually caused them both to tumble down onto the floor.

Rain patters against the windows, hard as hail. In the moment it took for one to blink, an almost inaudible drizzle had turned into a torrent. He feels Raymond's arms wrap tighter around his neck and he rubs his son's back as he starts to walk towards his chambers.

There is a knock at the door.

"Please, whoever is here!"

The voice is almost drowned out by the storm, but George hears it. A girl's. A child's. His mind wanders to thoughts of ghosts, but his instincts take over and- Raymond's feet are on the floor in an instant.

"Raymond, don't-" but the boy is scrambling towards the door even before George has a chance to take a step forward. His son is brave. Much braver than he is.

By the next thunderstrike, Raymond guides a smaller, cloaked figure inside, his arms around its shoulders.

George finds bright green eyes looking up at him, a small girl clutching something to her chest. She cannot be older than his own son. In fact, she is shorter than him.

"You are the Duke of Norfolk?" She asks haughtily. She looks defiant even while she was soaked in rainwater. She steps out of her cloak as he nods, revealing a leather-bound volume in her small hands. He recognizes it.

"This belongs to you, Your Grace. To your wife." If the girl weren't so young, he would have thought of her as authority. Her voice holds the most daring, unflinching tone he has ever heard. He takes the book with trembling hands, the cover glaring at him. The sigil of the Duke of Norfolk. He opens it, knowing what he will find.

To Emily, with all my love.

"Who are you, child?" George questions, looking away from the book.

The girl looks at him, a daring light in her eyes, shaking Raymond's hand off her sodden cloak.

"Do not touch that, you will freeze." Her tone is almost comical with her voice being so high-pitched.

Raymond, ever so stubborn Raymond who throws tantrums when he is ordered around, backs down as the girl kicks the cloak away, allowing the hem of her pale blue dress to touch the floor. She is rather dry under it as she crosses her arms and looks at the both of them critically.

"I am Arianne Liddell, the Countess of Ravensworth's heiress. Your Grace, I have reason to believe that your wife was murdered."

A/N: You'll see more of Arianne ;) Don't worry, she's not as rough as she seems, but she's still the most real character I've ever put my time into. You'll love her, if you don't think she's mess first.