Chapter 1: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 1 - DECEMBER MOON [A1]
Chapter Text
Pairing : Colonel Brandon x OC
Summary : During a night on December, Colonel Brandon meets a young woman who captivates him instantly. He then realises that what he had mistaken for love when he met Marianne had never truly been love.
Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Sadness, mention of depression and loneliness.
A/N : Hello dear 😁 I'm so excited to write for my first Rickmas hosted by the amazing @deepperplexity ! I stumbled upon Rickmas last year... after Christmas, but I was in a very bad phase at the time and all those amazing stories helped me so much and I also discoverd the incredible trilogy "Judge and Sentenced" from @deepperplexity that I advise you to read because it's probably the best Turpin's fiction I've ever read ! Anyway, I'm doing my Sinclair by rambling here, therefore, let's begin Rickmas !
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Poor Colonel Brandon was returning from London, exhausted. He, who usually preferred to be perched on his stallion was comfortably installed in the shelter of his carriage. At 38, he had never felt so old and yet, he was still so young.
But a small voice, which strangely had the same intonations as a lady he knew, told him that he was just an old man full of rheumatism. It was not entirely false. He had an old soul since birth, fuelled by the mistreatment of a violent and unloving father and by a protective mother who died too early. As for the rheumatism, it was more a vestige of his life in the army, but also of an accident in India involving an elephant, which had almost cost him an arm and had left him with a painful shoulder, especially in rainy weather.
But beyond his 38 years that he carried like a burden, there was the memory of his sweet Eliza and te one of the mischievous Marianne. Two women who had broken his heart. The first without wanting to, the second on a whim.
Eliza, tender, intrepid and in love with him, this beauty with whom he had fallen in love while still very young and whom his father had taken away from him without scruples before sending him, at only sixteen, to join the ranks of his majesty's army.
Fortunately, in India he had met John Middleton who had been more than a friend, almost a surrogate father. Indeed, 20 years older than Brandon, he had immediately taken a liking to the young man and his situation, helping him to climb the ranks of the army thanks to his influence.
Later, when he returned to England, he met his mentor's mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, an intrusive woman who had an unfortunate tendency to meddle in things that didn't concern her, but for whom he nevertheless had infinite tenderness. Her intrusive nature came from the pain of having lost his eldest daughter, John's wife, while she was expecting a child. A haemorrhage in the middle of the night, an incompetent doctor, and in the morning, the mother and child had gone to join the heavens. Mrs. Jennings reminded him of his own mother with the gentleness she showed him and if she was not known for her subtlety, she had always had the delicacy to never mention Eliza in front of him.
As for Marianne... This pretty devil who had reminded him of her deceased Eliza had hurt him much more than any whipping given by his father for an unimportant misdeed.
He had loved her at first sight, finding in her his first love and it had taken him time and a little too much of a difficult lesson to realize that she wasn't even the shadow of his Eliza. Eliza would never have shown the wickedness that Marianne had shown by letting him hope just after his infectious fever, graciously accepting his gifts and demanding his presence. No, Marianne, full of malice, had felt no remorse in making him suffer as she did with all those around her when she could no longer get anything from them.
She had let him believe that she was his just after this fever that had almost taken her, but when he had asked her to marry him, she had hesitated, giving him an ambiguous answer, a "maybe" more than a "yes". It was during a social event organised at Barton Park that he had understood that the young woman had set her sights on another man of barely 23 years old. A young and dashing high judge of London with a cold and severe look, but rich and powerful, much more than him, much more than anyone in Devonshire.
The next day, he had asked Marianne for an answer to his question and when she had still hesitated, he had told her that he knew and that he was freeing her. He didn't yet know that it was him that he was freeing.
Marianne was now married to this man that all of London nicknamed The Death's Judge, and if she was happily married or not, Brandon didn't know, all he knew was that she was expecting her first child while he was still alone, with no one to love. No loved one and no descendants.
Alone with his heavy thoughts and this feeling that he would end up alone, he who had so much affection to offer, so much love to give, if only a woman with enough spirit but also a certain reserve could make his heart beat again that he now thought would be cold forever, he would cherish her as no man could.
Two years had passed since the injury inflicted by Marianne and with time, his heart had calmed down, and his old governess, full of wisdom, had gently made him understand that what he had taken for love towards Marianne had in fact been only an illusion nourished by this vague resemblance of character that the young woman shared with Eliza.
It was then that the carriage stopped abruptly and Christopher had just enough time to put his hand in front of him so as not to crush his hooked nose against the empty seat in front of him.
"What's going on ?" he asked in his baritone voice as he got out of the carriage.
The icy wind immediately bit his cheeks as night fell gently, promising new frosts.
"A dog, Colonel Brandon, I wanted to avoid a dog," the coachman apologized.
Christopher saw it. A little further away. A dog with a red coat was curled up.
"Is it hurt ?" Christopher asked, genuinely worried.
"No, I avoided him," the coachman replied, "I think he got scared."
Christopher approached the animal cautiously. Medium-sized, the dog looked fierce, ready to bite, but Christopher was reassured to see no injuries.
"Are you lost, little boy ?" he asked the dog, hoping to calm him down.
As if to answer his question, a young woman's voice was heard behind the trees that lined the road.
"Henry ! Henry !" she shouted urgently.
That's when you appeared from behind the trees at the very moment the moon was hitting the night with its first rays. Christopher couldn't take his eyes off that angelic face, fine features that gave off great gentleness and eyes... eyes as deep green as the woods you had just left, green like when summer brought the trees back to life.
You stopped dead when you saw the carriage and your face went from surprise to terror.
"HENRY !" you shouted as you ran towards the dog.
Without even a glance at Christopher or his coachman who had just dismounted, you ran towards the dog who immediately stood up to run towards you.
"Henry, are you okay ?" you asked as if the dog could have answered you.
You examined him carefully, looking for an injury or a trace of blood.
"My coachman avoided it just in time," Christopher reassured you.
You stood up, turning towards Christopher who was slightly disconcerted by your gaze, deep, vibrant, eyes that reflected a thousand emotions at the same time... and who seemed to judge him.
"I promise you it was an accident, the dog rushed in front of the carriage," he felt obliged to justify himself.
You still said nothing, watching Christopher carefully. He did the same, although a little uncomfortable by the sudden silence of this young woman who had been so vocal when she had thought her dog was injured. He too looked at you. He had never seen you before, not that he knew everyone living in Dorsetshire, but he could at least boast of knowing everyone living around Delaford, most of them working for him.
"I am Colonel Christopher Brandon," he finally introduced himself with a bow.
"[Y/N], [Y/N] [Y/S]," you answered in a soft voice, bowing back.
You seemed a little shy, perhaps due to your youth. But the more Christopher looked at you, the more he doubted that you were as young as you looked. A certain seriousness in your gaze, like a deep-seated pain that only someone who has lived long enough to know the true pangs of life could have.
"I have never seen you here before," he said in spite of himself.
"My father was hired as a gardener by the Hawthorns, we arrived a month ago," you answered without trying to appear for what you was not.
Christopher knew this influential family from Devonshire well, John's neighbours. You were far from their home, more than four hours on foot, maybe five if the rain started to fall on the ground that was freezing at full speed.
"You are far from home," he pointed out.
The moonlight prevented him from hiding a slight blush on your cheeks.
"It's Henry, he ran away this morning and I wanted to find him before nightfall. I was afraid he would die of cold tonight," you explained, glancing at the said Henry.
The dog, totally unaware of the fright he had given his mistress, amused himself by teasing Christopher's coachman who was not at ease in front of the animal, much to the amusement of the Colonel.
"You came all this way for a dog?" he asked, surprised.
"Henry isn't just a dog ! He's a full-fledged member of the family," you replied briskly.
Christopher apologized quickly. He hadn't meant to offend you, he had been sincerely surprised. In his world, full of nobility, a woman wouldn't have ventured so far, so lightly covered, to find a runaway dog.
"Aren't you cold, miss ?" Christopher asked, seeing you suppress a shiver.
"I'm used to it," you replied, looking away.
That was all it took for him to understand. He had already understood your modest condition, but he assumed, probably rightly, that your family had probably couldn't afford a proper coat.
Without hesitation, he took his off and before you could protest, he placed it on your shoulders.
"I insist," he said gently but firmly when you wanted to give it back.
A new silence settled between you. Christopher couldn't help but notice your similarities. You didn't speak much, looked serious but you had a certain dignity and you seemed deeply kind even if he guessed a volcanic temperament if you attacked those you loved, as you had shown when he dared to say that your dog was just a dog.
"Henry, that's a funny name for a dog," he finally dared to say.
"I called him that because when I found him, I was reading a book about Henry VIII."
"Found ?"
"Yes, an old farmer had abandoned his dog's entire litter in the middle of the woods. It was in the village where I used to live. Henry was the only puppy still alive. I brought him back and my father didn't have the heart to abandon him when he found him hiding in my room," you said before stopping suddenly, feeling like you had said too much.
But Christopher didn't judge you, not for your modest condition. He found you endearing, refreshing even in your own way.
"Can I drive you and Henry home ?" he offered kindly.
"That's nice, but we're going for a walk," you replied.
Christopher's smile immediately faded.
"Miss [Y/S], I insist, it's already pitch black."
"I don't think it's right for me to sit alone with you in your carriage," you said softly.
Christopher's eyes lit up with a flash of understanding. You had no chaperone to accompany you in the carriage and propriety shouldn't have made him insist, but it was cold, you were far from home, and he would not have been able to sleep properly tonight without being sure that you had returned home safely.
He was about to insist when, without warning, the rain began to fall, hammering the ground severely. He almost pushed you into the carriage before grabbing Henry and making him climb in at the same time as himself.
"You can't go back alone, by foot, in this weather, you will catch your death," he said in a tone that left no room for contradiction.
He told the coachman your destination and the carriage set off again. He wouldn't return home tonight finally, to his estate that he had so longed to return to, he wouldn't find his firm and comfortable bed and his governess's lemon cakes. He already knew that you would arrive home late, but he had no doubt that John and his mother-in-law would welcome him with open arms, even if he was not expected. It bothered him a little to impose himself like this, but he knew that the horse, and also the coachman, would not have the strength to make it all the way to Devonshire, then to Delaford.
The journey took place in comfortable silence. You were shivering slightly from the cold, snuggling in spite of yourself in the Colonel's oversized coat that smelled of cologne and another perfume whose name you did not know but that you had already smelled on your father's employer.
"May I ask you if you live alone with your father ?" Christopher dared to ask.
His intention wasn't entirely innocent. He wanted to know if you had a fiancé.
"Yes," you simply replied.
He wondered how old you were and what you did with your days, but he felt you were reserved and he himself was not a man who spoke easily about himself, he preferred not to bother you any further.
It was almost 10 pm when the carriage finally arrived near the modest cottage that the Hawthorns rented at a ridiculous price to your father. The place was small, modest. There were only four rooms: two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen as well as a small cold and poorly lit room that you used to take your baths.
Although you didn't know who Christopher really was, you guessed that he was important... and rich, and you couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed by the smallness of your means, but at no time did Christopher seem to be bothered by it. He helped you down before handing you Henry.
"Come inside and get warm, [Y/S]," he said, bowing before adding, "it was a pleasure to meet you."
"Thank you Colonel Brandon, really," you replied before disappearing inside, not without one last look at the man who still had his hazel eyes fixed on you.
Christopher then headed to his old friend John's, his thoughts filled with your face, your soft voice, that strange feeling you had awakened in him but that he tried to stifle at all costs. He didn't want to suffer, not again. He had finally learned his lesson. Love wasn't for him, you wouldn't make him suffer, not you too.
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"Brandon ! My old friend, I didn't know we were expecting you !" John exclaimed when the butler announced Christopher.
"I'm sorry to intrude like this..." he began before being interrupted by Mrs. Jennings who told him with her usual joviality that he was always welcome at their home.
John invited him to drink a glass of his best whisky, a Scottish vintage that he particularly cherished, in his office. Christopher hesitated to confide in him about the intriguing encounter he had had, and wisdom made him hold his tongue. Until the next day, when at breakfast, when he ventured a few questions to Mrs. Jennings.
"Last night, as I was heading to your place, I met a young woman. A certain [Y/S]. Do you know her, Mrs. Jennings ?" he asked casually without telling the whole truth about your encounter.
"Oh, Miss [Y/S] ! I don't know her very well, she's a very private young lady, but..."
She knew a lot for someone who didn't know you and she was able to tell Christopher that you were a 28 year old spinster with no known fiancé. You were rather private although often seen with your faithful Henry.
"She sometimes walks on my land," John informed Christopher as he took a bite of bread, "I've never had the heart to tell her she walks on private land, she's so reserved that I don't want to make her uncomfortable," he added.
"Oh, and she seems so respectful and she's not doing anything wrong walking here with her dog. Poor child, she's always so alone." Mrs. Jennings said theatrically. "She sometimes helps out at the Hawthorne manor with the children. I did try to invite her to have tea with me once, but she told me she didn't think a girl like her belonged at my table."
"Nonsense !" John exclaimed, "Any pleasant and well-mannered person is worthy of being part of our acquaintances."
His mother-in-law nodded vigorously before continuing with the latest gossip, but Christopher was already no longer listening, his thoughts lost in a December night where the moon lit up your eyes a deep green.
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Finally returning home, Christopher settled into his old worn fabric armchair, a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading. You were still there haunting his thoughts. He had felt this feeling before. Not like with Marianne, no. But like with Eliza.
He shook his head vigorously as if to get your image out of his head. He couldn't afford to have heartbroken, he wouldn't survive it, not when he had finally come to terms with the idea of being alone for the rest of his life, in the comfort of the Delaford, with his dogs. And yet, he didn't see his day go by. Not because he had been busy with his fishing trip and his horseback ride, but because his mind had been busy. Busy with you.
And for no real reason, he found himself visiting his friend John two days later, under the pretext of proposing a hunting trip. John accepted enthusiastically, unaware that his friend's real intention was to see you again. And it didn't take more than two days for him to come across you near the small river that crossed John's land. Recognising him, Henry ran towards him, barking happily.
"Miss [Y/S], what a nice surprise to see you again," Brandon said politely, bowing.
"Colonel Brandon, this is a surprise indeed," you replied, giving him a slight bow.
"You don't have any gloves," he remarked, a little concerned.
However, what he didn't mention, although he noticed it right away, was that you were wearing his coat, the one he had forced over your shoulders a few nights earlier and that you had forgotten to give him back. The fabric still smelled like him, in addition to being of undeniable quality, giving you a welcome warmth. Christopher was kind enough not to say anything, happy that you had something decent to cover yourself with.
"I never wear them," you replied, shrugging, "I can't turn the pages of my book with gloves," you added, showing him the book with the worn cover that you were holding in your hands.
"Can I accompany you on your walk, Miss [Y/S] ?"
You nodded shyly and you walked along the small river together, Henry at your side. The Colonel didn't seem bothered by your four-legged companion who regularly jumped on him, leaving his footprints on his black pants. When you apologised, a little embarrassed by Henry's behaviour, Christopher replied with a smile that he loved dogs and that it didn't matter to him that Henry decided to repaint his pants.
When the sky began to darken in the late afternoon, you politely excused yourself, stating that you should go home before nightfall.
"Can I walk you home?" Brandon suggested, genuinely worried about letting you walk home alone.
You bit your lip, hesitant. On one hand, you didn't want to risk being seen with a man and having rumors spread about you, but on the other hand, you didn't want to risk hurting the kind Colonel Brandon. You finally agreed, praying inwardly that no viper's tongue in the village would see you two. Your wish seemed to have been granted and it was with the manners of a gentleman that Colonel Brandon wished you a good evening before waiting until you had closed the door behind you to turn on your heels.
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In love. He was in love, for sure. And it wasn't an illusion this time. You were nothing like Eliza. You were neither lively nor spontaneous. In fact, you were more like him: thoughtful, calm and sparing with words. But you also had a certain depth, a certain culture and a natural curiosity to feed your mind. He knew that with you, he would always have a subject of conversation, whether it was books, poetry, art, theatre or music. He had understood it when, despite your lack of education on the subject, you had taken an interest in his life in the army and when you had started to drown him in questions not about him but about India, the different cultures and people he had met there, he had found it refreshing.
At no time had you asked a question about his field or made any allusion to his status. But that was where the problem lay in Christopher's mind. His status. He had never really given importance to social class differences. Not with Eliza. Not with Marianne. His father had taught him a first lesson, Marianne a second, more bitter than the first one. What would he do if you were also a dowry hunter ?
Christopher wanted to be loved. Loved for himself, not for his wealth, not for the Delaford. Of course, if you were his he would spoil you like never before. You would have the most beautiful dresses, your own coats, gloves, clothes for every season and jewellery to match each dress.
You would have access to all the books you wanted and he would teach you to draw and play the piano so that you could occupy your time in his big house. But it was not for all that he had to offer that he wanted you to love him in return. It was for himself and a small, vicious voice told him that a girl like you, a girl of little condition, penniless, a gardener's daughter, an old maid at that, could never truly love him for himself. But another small voice, weaker but still there, told him that he must not let himself be swayed by a bad experience.
After all, Marianne was just a child, a capricious and changeable little girl and he wasn't even sure that her real interest in his love stories was money. With her impulsiveness, Marianne fell in love as easily as one falls off a chair and he wondered if she would keep her promise made before God to be faithful to her high judge. Although he knew the latter well enough not to doubt that he would hold this little demon with an iron fist.
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Several miles from the Delaford, your thoughts were haunted too. Haunted by a tall man with dark blond hair and hazel eyes. His eagle-beaked nose that made him even more distinguished and his shy smile haunted you. You knew exactly what you felt for him. You had known it the moment he had wrapped you authoritatively in his coat before forcing you into his carriage to take you home on that December night lit only by the moon.
You loved him. You loved him as you had thought you loved twelve years earlier. But you realized today that what you had taken for love at only sixteen had nothing to do with what you felt for the dark Colonel Brandon. This time, you were experiencing true love, the kind that burns you from the inside, consumes you, haunts your nights and fills your days.
But you had no right to love him. By discreetly asking around at the old bakery, you had learned who Colonel Christopher Brandon really was. A man who wasn't for you. A man too good, too important, too rich. How could a man like him ever be interested in a woman like you ?
But that wasn't all. Even if, by some totally improbable chance, Colonel Brandon could have the slightest interest in you, you were hiding something. A secret that would repel any man, even a man of your status. A secret that only your grandmother knew and that she had taken with her to her grave. A secret that would die with you but that condemned you to remain alone forever.
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A few days later, you were alone outside in the middle of the night, frozen to the bone as a pure white snow fell on Dorsetshire. Henry was sheltered in your coat, or at least the Colonel's coat. The little rascal had burrowed away again and now you were both going to catch bluetongue. If it hadn't been for the full moon, you would never have been able to find your way through all that white. Just then, in front of you came a man on horseback, a magnificent black stallion with a fine appearance.
Inwardly, you felt anxiety take hold of you. It was late and you could tell that the rider was a man, and you hoped that he was a man with good intentions.
The closer the horse got, the more familiar the figure on it seemed to you. But it was only when he was a few steps away from you that you recognized Colonel Brandon, dashing in his long wool coat.
"Miss [Y/S] !" he exclaimed in an almost angry tone, "what are you doing out in this weather ? You're going to catch your death !"
"It's Henry, he disappeared again himself again," you replied in a very small voice.
Hearing his name, the dog stuck his head between the flaps of the coat, his tongue hanging out trying to catch the snowflakes that were falling on you.
"Maybe we should build a proper barrier to stop your companion from scaring you to death... and freezing."
Brandon had said this with a firmness that left no room for any kind of humour. You nodded timidly, shivering despite the warmth of his coat.
"Give him to me," Brandon ordered.
You hesitated for a moment but when he held out his gloved hands towards you, you handed him Henry without fear. Deep down, you knew he wouldn't hurt your best friend. Christopher placed your dog inside his own coat, then he held out your hand.
"Ride with me, I'll take you home !"
You placed your hand in his hesitantly and he hoisted you up without any harm behind him before setting his horse into a gallop.
Your hands hooked on his hips, you gently rested your head against his back. You could feel the warmth emanating from his body pierce you and for a moment, you imagined what it must be like to be loved by a man like him.
When the horse stopped in front of the cottage you shared with your father, the snow had stopped falling and it shone like millions of diamonds under the benevolent gaze of the moon.
"Your father isn't here ?" Brandon asked worriedly, seeing no candles lit in your candle, nor the smoke of a warm fire burning in the fireplace.
"No. The Hawthornes are having a small party for the staff and he was invited," you replied as he helped you dismount.
Christopher dismounted as well, Henry still sheltered against his chest.
"Do you need help lighting the fire ?" Brandon asked, genuinely concerned.
"No, thank you Colonel, but I'll be fine."
The truth was that you couldn't start the fire eight times out of ten, but if anyone found out that a man had come into your house while your father wasn't there to chaperone you, it didn't matter that you were already 28, the rumour that you were a girl of easy virtue would spread like wildfire in the village and your father would risk losing his job with the Hawthornes, people of great kindness but who couldn't stand to be the object of mockery, especially at the fault of their employees.
"Good evening, Miss [Y/S]," Brandon murmured, his gaze tender.
"Colonel, I can't go home," you murmured.
"Why ?" Christopher asked in a whisper.
"Because you're still holding my dog in hostage," you replied with a slight smile.
Christopher chuckled before handing Henry back to you, but as he placed him in your arms, his fingers lingered longer than necessary on your icy hand.
Gently, he untied the silk scarf that brought a little more warmth to his throat and chest to place it around you, adding a touch of modesty to your fragile form in the face of his imposing stature. The scarf, light and delicate, immediately offered you an additional touch of warmth, a touch of warmth that manifested itself in a delicate blush on your cheeks, a touch of warmth caused by the violent feelings you felt for Christopher Brandon.
"I offer it to you. As well as the coat. They will keep you warm this winter," Brandon said softly, almost as if he were reciting poetry.
"Colonel..." you murmured, too moved to add a thank you.
"Miss [Y/S]..."
He hesitated for a moment. What he was about to say would change the destiny of both of you forever. He wasn't going to offer to be your friend. No, he was going to take a risk, a new one.bet against the reason that pushed him to make you a mere memory, against his heart that screamed at him that he would suffer again, against the love that seemed to refuse him with force, leaving him a little more broken each time.
"Miss [Y/S], do you allow me to court you ?"
A million emotions crossed your gaze and he could not name any of them. Inside, you screamed with joy while your heart beat so hard that you wondered if it would not explode with love. But there was this secret. This secret that could destroy the slightest illusion that you could nourish towards the slightest spark of love between Colonel Brandon and yourself. Yet, if your head told you to say no to him immediately so as not to hurt him later, so as not to hurt this man who seemed sincerely good and kind and who deserved so much better than you, it was your heart that answered.
"Yes."
You said it in a breath, your eyes diving into his. With tenderness, he caressed your face, a slight smile softening his features so often severe while you allowed yourself a sincere smile that hid your fear that he could learn what had haunted you for more than twelve years.
"I promise to always respect you miss [Y/S]," Christopher murmured, confusing your apprehension for what you were hiding with the fear that he was playing you.
"Colonel, please, call me by my first name," you asked him candidly.
"Only if, in private, you call me Christopher."
You nodded with emotion. He squeezed your small hands in his, smiling slightly at Henry's antics who was impatient at the idea of going back to get warm.
"Come back, [Y/N], get warm. I'll come back to see you tomorrow and talk to your father. I'll ask for his blessing to court you properly."
And without waiting to answer, he placed a tender kiss on your forehead, while on this December evening, only the moon was witness to this hope that you both nourished. The hope of a new chance, of redemption, of finally knowing true love.
Chapter 2: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 2 - SECRET WATCHING
Summary:
5 years. 5 years that The Death's Judge had noticed you. 5 years he was watcing you in silence. But now, it's time to speak out if he doesn't want to lose you... for ever.
Chapter Text
It had been a long time since he had noticed you. 5 years, 8 months, 23 days and 6 hours to be exact.
Lord Richard Turpin, High Judge of London, The Death's Judge, was a man of precision, even more so when it came to you.
It was a cold and foggy evening in November that he had noticed you. You were walking down Fleet Street, your bun letting loose little unruly hairs that flew in the wind and in your hands, you held books. On your back, you had a coat much too thin for the harsh winter that was coming.
Who were you ?
This question haunted him the second you raised your big green eyes to him without seeing him.
That evening, he had followed you under the pretext that nothing happened to you. After all, the streets of London can be dangerous, especially in the middle of the night, when they are lit only by the weak lanterns that adorn the sidewalks of the City without really illuminating it.
A creature as beautiful as you... what an unconscious judge he would have been not to stay hidden in the shadows to watch over you... and find out where you lived.
You entered a small modest house in a poor neighborhood of Bloomsbury, in a small shop where the sign read [[Y/S] - Watchmaker].
Now that he knew your address and your supposed last name, he rushed to his gloomy mansion without wasting a second. In the comfort of his leather armchair, far from the slums of London, he waited for his faithful and deceitful secretary while watching the wood fire crackling in the fireplace of his office. He found himself wondering if you were shivering with cold in your small house that must have let the wind through every window. If that was the case, he wanted to be the one to warm you up... even if he had to learn that you were married.
"BEADLE !" he had shouted, putting down the book that he wasn't even trying to call a book.
"My lord ?" The Beadle had asked in his honeyed voice, appearing out of nowhere, like a rat waiting for a good reason to come out of its hole.
"Find me everything you can about a young woman. Her name is [Y/S]. She lives in the deprived area along Goodge Street."
It didn't take much for The Beadle to come back in just a few days with everything Richard was burning to know.
Your full name was [Y/N] [Y/S]. The watchmaker's shop you had entered belonged to your father, but it barely allowed you to live decently. You weren't married and no fiancé was in sight. This last piece of information had strangely relieved Richard.
You were a little schoolteacher with no real official qualification except for a certificate with no real value, but the little informal girls' school you worked for didn't care about your qualifications. You knew how to read, write and count to teach these poor little girls to do the same in addition to learning sewing, embroidery and all those domestic tasks that would become theirs.
Richard deduced that you had to work hard for a salary that must have been very meager, but according to The Beadle, that didn't stop you from doing your job well. Your students liked you, especially since you were the only teacher who didn't beat them with that long wooden stick that bruised the hands of the other little girls in the school and the parents had no complaints about you.
And after that, he had continued to observe you. For a long time. Without ever trying to approach you, but not without acting. Indeed, strangely enough, your father had found himself counting lords and important men among his clientele. Your school had received new notebooks and the stoves that heated the classrooms had never run out of coal in 5 years.
And yet, he had never tried to speak to you. Certainly not because he was too embarrassed by your 20-year age gap or your differences in social class. No, it was much darker than that. You exuded innocence, purity and Richard, in his depraved nature, wanted to take all that away from you. He knew that the moment he allowed himself to be close to you, that he would say hello and let you know that he had noticed you, he would ruin all that pure beauty that was in you. Because he wanted you and what he wanted to do to you would have made God himself blush.
5 years he had been watching you, his heart singing for you every time he saw you while you were in total ignorance. How could you have suspected for a single second that you had made the terrible Lord Turpin fall in love ?
Oh, you knew his name, he was certain of it. Everyone in London knew the terrible Richard Turpin, The Death's Judge. But no one could have imagined that a man like him could have let such a pretty little thing as you creep into his mind so much that it was your face that he saw when he was fucking the whores of Whitechapel.
In five years, he had never seen you with any friend. Sometimes your father accompanied you on your walks, but most of the time, you were alone. Always impeccable, despite the modesty of your outfits, always friendly and smiling, there was nevertheless no one around you.
Until last week. For the first time, Richard felt his heart pinch, almost break, at the sight of a young man who walked beside you, a stupid smile on his face. He was clean on him, of a higher class than yours, but certainly not higher than Richard's.
Jealousy completely consumed Richard in the face of this sight.
It hadn't taken more than half a day for Richard to have a detailed report on this young man who answered to the name of Robert Crawford. He had hoped to find something, anything, to send this impertinent little boy who had set his sights on you to the depths of a colony in Australia. But nothing. He had found nothing and neither had The Beadle and it made Richard sick.
He could not bear that you had finally found the one who was going to take you away from your father and take your purity, especially this purity.
Robert came from a family of rich merchants and he himself was a fierce and renowned trader. However, there was something about this Robert that Richard did not like. He could not say what, but there was something disturbing about this young man.
Perhaps it was this reserve that you always seemed to have around him. You only half smiled and in truth, you did not really seem in love with him. But it was not surprising. Few women had the luxury of dreaming of love, even less when, like you, they had no money. Marriage was not a matter of the heart but of pragmatism.
On the contrary, Robert never failed to smile in your presence, but it seemed false to Richard. This man was hiding something, he was certain of it, his cold, calculating and manipulative nature had never deceived him and he promised himself to keep an eye on this young man.
For the first time, he had hesitated to come and talk to you. He could have easily torn you away from this boy, but it would have been so hypocritical of him. It was surely not better, he who had often wondered what he would feel if he took you on his desk in court between two trials.
Months passed and this young man became more and more present in your life, until Richard saw a ring with a tiny diamond adorning your finger. And yet, you still did not seem happy. There was no excitement in your eyes, only resignation.
And once again, he did nothing, waiting to see the banns announce your marriage and when they finally came out, he felt his world collapse, his certainties fly away, his heart break for good, he who had always thought he was made of nothing but ice. In two months, you would become Mrs. Crawford.
It was three weeks before your wedding that something changed. You were crossing the street when Richard saw you, but what he noticed most was the bruise on your cheek. Black. Painful. And finally, he understood why this Robert was bothering him so much, why his instinct was screaming at him to send this man to the end of the world or to the end of a rope.
Taken by an impulse, Richard crossed the street to find himself in your path and gently jostled you, as if nothing had happened, making the books you were holding in your trembling hands fall.
"Forgive me, miss, I was distracted," Richard lied.
"It's nothing," you replied as you bent down, not even daring to look up at him.
He bent down to help you, holding out a hand to help you up while his other hand held two of your books. You finally looked up at his, your big green eyes widening in surprise when you recognized the man who had just helped you.
"Lord Turpin," you said in a breath.
"So you know who I am," Turpin said softly with a sad smile.
He was not fooled, if you knew his name, it was because of his terrible reputation and nothing was made up. What earned him the nickname The Death's Judge came from his ruthless judgments, his austere nature and his ability to manipulate the course of events to his will.
"Your cheek," he said softly, unable to take his eyes off the dark stain, that even though didn't spoil your beauty.
"I fell against a piece of furniture," you whispered, looking away.
Liar, Richard thought. You had been slapped. Hard. Probably hard enough to make you fall. But that mark on your face was a mark made by a hand. The hand of a man. Certainly the hand of the man who would soon swear to love and protect you.
A shiver ran down Richard's spine thinking about it. You were going to marry a man who was going to make your life hell, who would beat you every chance he got and who would make a shadow of you. In three weeks, you would no longer be allowed to teach. You would be a prisoner in your own house and corrected for every sideways glance. He would teach you not to think for yourself anymore, because every time you tried to contradict him, he would remind you of your place with a good slap... or worse.
"A very brutal piece of furniture," Richard said coldly.
"Yes, indeed," you answered in a whisper.
"Can I walk you home, miss..." he asked, pretending not to know your name.
"[Y/N], my name is [Y/N] [Y/S]."
"A very pretty name, Miss [Y/S]," he said before asking you again if he could walk beside you.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
Richard hadn't missed the glint of panic that had crossed your eyes. The hold had already begun. You couldn't even talk to a man without fear of being punished. He wondered if your father knew or if you had told him the story of the furniture and he had believed it.
"In that case, be careful. The streets of London can be dangerous in the dark for a woman," he said without taking his piercing gaze away from your small, frail figure.
"Closed doors are even more dangerous," you replied in spite of yourself before greeting him respectfully and leaving.
Indeed, closed doors could be dangerous, but enough of watching you in secret. Richard knew. Richard was going to act. This marriage would not take place, he promised himself that.
The Beadle was tasked with finding something, anything that could legally indict this young man from a good family. Richard had to play it smart, he wasn't going after some scumbag from the London slums. The Crawford family, though untitled, had some good allies thanks to their money.
But when, three days later, he saw you with a split lip and a new bruise near your nose, a dull anger filled him, and nothing was going to stop him from getting rid of this Robert.
"Miss [Y/S]," you heard behind you.
You turned around with a start before raising an eyebrow in surprise when you recognized Lord Turpin.
"Your furniture seems to particularly hold a grudge against you," Richard said immediately without giving you time to greet him formally.
"I..."
"No lies, miss. I am the High Judge of London, I punish lies," he interrupted you.
You looked down, not knowing what to say.
"Is it the action of your fiancé ?"
You looked up at him questioningly before looking away again, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
"Miss [Y/S], are you in danger ?"
"I don't know," you answered in a breath, tears in your eyes.
Richard grabbed your arm roughly and dragged you inside the courthouse to his office. You didn't even have the strength to protest, too surprised by his actions, also afraid that someone in the street had seen you and would report it to Robert. That you had let another man touch you would earn you a new punishment, you knew that.
"Sit down," Turpin ordered you, closing the heavy wooden door of his office behind you.
You obeyed without daring to look at him, wondering what he was going to do. You had nothing to reproach yourself for, but you were not afraid that he would imprison you. Your recent experiences had taught you that there were many other things you had to fear from a man.
"When did it start ?" Richard asked, coming to sit in front of you.
"Why do you care ?" you asked, raising your chin a little.
Richard smiled imperceptibly. You were certainly not broken. You still had the strength to rebel, your flame was not extinguished, this man had not yet completely subjugated you by making terror your worst enemy.
"Miss [Y/S], it is my duty to worry about the citizens of London."
You finally looked him in the eye, a small ironic smile on your lips that Richard didn't miss.
"I can protect you, Miss [Y/S]. But you have to tell me the truth for that."
You hesitated. Even though he was the highest authority in the court, you weren't sure that a man like him could be trusted. Not without having to pay the price. But at this point, it was after all, choosing between the plague or cholera.
"I..." you began, hesitant, not knowing what to say.
"Is he your fiancé ?" Richard asked again.
"Yes," you finally answered.
"When ?"
You shook your head, hoping to stop the tears that had just welled up in your beautiful, bruised eyes from flowing.
"A little after the marriage proposal. He..."
The tears began to flow in spite of yourself. Richard handed you his handkerchief embroidered with his initials. You took it, trembling, and you finally tell everything.
You had met Robert by chance in your father's shop and he had courted you almost immediately. You weren't really interested in this young man, but he was kind, well-mannered, and above all he had money. It was this last criterion that had pushed your father to encourage you to frequent him. Your father was not unaware that when he died, you would inherit nothing and he could not bear the idea of you ending up on the street. It was not your meager income as a schoolteacher that could have supported you.
At first, Robert was only kind. He covered you with gifts, his parents seemed happy to welcome you into the family, and you had ended up telling yourself that with time, you could learn to love him. But after the marriage proposal, he had changed. It had first been a slap in the face because you had reprimanded him for a simple language error. Then another, and another, until he promised to "re-educate" you once you were married. As if to prove his point, he had hit you with the hand that held your family's signet ring, splitting your lip. Each time, it was for stupid reasons. Because you were too smart, because you were too intelligent, because you had said no.
"And your father, does he know?"
"No !" you cried, "he must not know. He would kill Lord Turpin and I do not want my father to be hanged," you said quickly.
Richard clenched his fists. He too wanted to kill him, this Robert who thought he could beat you for his own pleasure.
"And he believes your stories about falling on a piece of furniture ?" Richard asked coldly.
"I don't think so," you murmured, "but I don't want my father to get into trouble."
Richard's features softened slightly. Of course, as a good, loving daughter, you didn't want your father to have blood on his hands because of you. But you were the one who would end up dead if this match went through.
"Do you really have to marry him ?"
"I said yes, the banns have been published," you answered as if it were obvious.
"You could go away, hide yourself," Richard suggested.
"But where would I go ? I only have my father and he's too old to start a new life anywhere else. All he has is here in London and his job has worn him down more than he'll ever admit."
Richard watched you, letting the silence settle between you. You shifted slightly, uneasy under his scrutiny. He had a plan. A plan that wouldn't alienate anyone, an immediate solution to get you out of this situation. After that, he would have plenty of time to take care of this Robert Crawford.
"I have a home in Scotland. You would be safe there. The governess who lives there and takes care of the house will watch over you. You would be housed and fed and you would want for nothing."
You raised your head, surprised by this proposal.
"Going to Scotland ?" you asked suspiciously.
"Indeed."
And be his without really being his. To be far from this Robert. Protected. This country house in the depths of the Highlands was occupied only by a governess and by the ghosts of his past, the screams of his mother and the sound of his father's belt falling on his back at the slightest reason. A house filled with shadow and bad memories that he had not been able to bring himself to sell after his father's disappearance. His mother had stayed living in their main home, leaving Richard this place that he had never liked but that today would finally find its use.
"I... I don't know," you said, hesitant.
"You will be very alone, I'm afraid. But no one will come looking for you there. You will be fine there and protected, I promise you."
"But... and my father ?"
"I will keep an eye on him, but it might be wiser not to tell him where you are going."
"And the wedding ?"
"You want it to happen ? You know the miserable life you'll have if you marry this man. And if you ever have children, they'll live in fear. Fear of their mother getting beaten, fear of their father's violence falling on them while you stand there, too afraid of getting another beating after the children," he spat vehemently.
You shuddered as you heard him say the cold truth, a truth you guessed he had known when he was younger.
"What's the price ?" you finally asked.
"The price ?" Richard repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"What's the price of your protection, Lord Turpin?"
Richard, fascinated by your frankness, wanted to tell you that the price would be that you would be his. But he said nothing. You would become his, but at your own pace. He wouldn't force it on you, and you'd end up believing it came from you.
"Nothing at all, I promise you."
"I don't believe you. Everything has a price. You're The Death's Judge. I can't believe you are doing something for free for a complete stranger," you said briskly.
"Believe me, miss [Y/S], you're not a stranger to me," he replied mysteriously.
A cold sweat ran down your spine. He had noticed you. You weren't sure if that was a good thing.
"If you agree, we'll go see your father and tell him why we're going to scare you away. But, we'll be careful not to tell him where. If you want to write to him, you will have to address the letters to me and I promise to get them to him."
You felt trapped. Trapped on all sides. Trapped by this marriage that you didn't know how to get out of, trapped by Lord Turpin who had just made you an offer that you feared was poisonous. But you also knew that he was right. Robert had shown you his true nature. He would end up breaking you.
"What if he hurts my father ?" you asked.
"Do you think he is so influential ?"
"He certainly does. And his family is rich. Money rules everything, you must know that, Lord Turpin."
"Indeed, Miss [Y/S], but his family is only a small merchant family. They do have some contacts in high society, but certainly not in the nobility," he said firmly, "and... they have me as an enemy now," he added coldly.
You shivered when you heard him say that, but when he gently moved his hand towards your scarred face, you didn't move. However, he gave you the space you needed to do so, you could have backed away a thousand times before he gently placed his warm palm against your cheek. He gently caressed your bruises before whispering:
"Accept, miss [Y/S], and I promise you that you will be safe."
And without even realizing it, you whispered yes.
Richard didn't wait a second longer to send The Beadles to get your father. The poor man arrived all trembling in the judge's office, but when he saw you, his protective instincts immediately kicked in awake.
"[Y/N], are you in trouble ?" he asked you, genuinely worried.
"Indeed, mister [Y/S], trouble that you should have noticed instead of encouraging your daughter to marry that Crawford," Richard scolded.
Your father looked at him with wide eyes, but his face darkened when Richard told him what you had been through when you weren't even married yet. Your father didn't like the idea of letting you go, especially not without knowing where and especially not under Lord Turpin's tutelage, but when you told him that you were afraid Robert would kill you, your father finally gave in.
That same evening, he had you get into one of his carriages. After you kissed your father one last time, Richard had you get into the carriage, cozy and provided with blankets and soft cushions.
"My coachman is a trustworthy man. You will arrive in Scotland in a week and he will keep you safe the whole journey."
"You promise to watch over my father ?" you asked gently.
"I promise," Richard replied firmly before handing you a letter, "don't open it until you arrive in Scotland. Please."
The please, spoken with such vulnerability made your heart beat a little faster.
"You are intelligent... and brave. You deserve the best. I promise you that you will have nothing to fear in Scotland, no one will come looking for you there."
Before you could answer, Richard had already turned away, his gaze dark, already busy thinking of a plan to get rid of Robert Crawford.
Throughout the journey, you clutched the letter in your hands, aware that it must contain much more than just words, but you held on without ever opening it. The journey was long, tiring and the coachman was not very talkative, but as Richard had promised you, he had watched over you like an eagle.
Once you arrived in Scotland, you were greeted by a stern-looking lady, the famous governess of the mansion.
"Miss [Y/S], I presume ? I have received a letter from Lord Turpin announcing your arrival. Come in, I will show you to your room."
The natural authority of the old governess did not make you want to upset her. She looked a lot like her master, you thought with a small, discreet laugh. She briefly introduced you to the mansion before showing you to your room.
"I'll let you settle in, miss," she said before leaving, leaving you alone.
It was a large room with off-white walls. Thick velvet drapes framed large windows that looked out onto a magnificent garden that winter had not yet extinguished with its biting cold.
You waited for nightfall and, after sharing dinner with the governess who was much more kind than you had imagined, you retired to your room. With trembling hands, yous grabbed the letter, opened it, and by candlelight you lost yourself in Richard's words, words that filled an entire page in firm handwriting.
"Miss [Y/S],
[Y/N],
I haven't been completely honest with you. It's been a long time since I noticed you. 5 years, 11 months and 28 days, to be exact.
I don't know how to reveal the depth of what I feel for you without scaring you, but the truth is that my heart started beating faster the moment I looked into your green eyes without you even really noticing me.
It's not for lack of courage that I never approached you before that day when I understood that your life was in danger. It's out of love that I never wanted to enter your life.
My nature... my nature is not the noblest. You are such a pure creature [Y/N] and I refuse to corrupt this beauty, this purity with the darkness that surrounds me.
Here, in Scotland, you can choose to start a new life, far from London, far from memories that you probably want to forget.
[Y/N], I love you and when I come to see you, it will not be as a judge, it will not be as a protector. It will be as a man in love and I will leave you the choice to do what you desire with my heart.
Richard Turpin"
You had a lump in your throat, you didn't know what to think. Millions of emotions passed through you, violent, like waves that submerged you. That night, you didn't sleep. The following nights, you only fell asleep after rereading the letter, again, again and again.
Meanwhile, in London, Turpin and Beadle Bamford were working on a... Machiavellian plan.
"I have a plan, my lord. It will require... some financial means of course," Beadle told Turpin with a sly smile.
"It doesn't matter as long as there is nothing to link us to what is going to happen," Turpin replied in a cold voice.
"Believe me, my lord, you will never be implicated."
"What part will that little rascal you found, Bamford, play ?"
"A foreign investor. He will flatter your nemesis by promising to make him even richer than his own father. A personal fortune that he will think he can build on his own without papa's help."
"Good. Good. I know men like that well. They always want more and they take even when they don't deserve it," Turpin muttered darkly.
It had only taken one poor but desperately rich young man to bring Robert down. In a luxuriously decorated office rented by Turpin in a prestigious club in central London, the young man dressed like a true gentleman by Bamford stood before Crawford with a simple but terribly dishonest offer. Richard knew the world well enough to know that every man, even the most perfect, had flaws and for the majority of them, money was their greatest weakness. Despite his family's wealth, Robert was one of them.
"Don't worry, Mr. Crawford. The deals I propose are common in our circles. Money is moving discreetly, and I promise you that your income will be... tripled."
The man hired by The Beadle had learned his lines well. The deal was simple: he would get Robert involved in suspicious business and in exchange he would receive a substantial sum of money... on the condition that he go into exile in Australia where an honest job was already waiting for him for a certain Elliot Marston, a cousin of Richard who would keep an eye on the corrupt man if ever he got the idea of blackmailing the High Judge of London.
"Laws are made to be circumvented," Robert replied, "I am not a novice. Prepare the documents and let's conclude this matter quickly."
And while hidden in the shadows, Richard watched with the hint of a carnivorous smile, the trap had just closed on Crawford.
A surprise inspection of the goods received orchestrated anonymously by Richard and the rumor was launched. Robert, ruined, was not a man to be trusted. He laundered money, made fraudulent investments and in less than a month, the reputation of the entire family was tarnished and Robert, arrested, was brought before Richard.
"Mr. Crawford, you have flouted the laws of our beautiful country. You have humiliated yourself and you have humiliated the name of your family! The evidence is overwhelming: commercial fraud, money laundering and fraud," Turpin listed, icy.
"That is false! It's a plot!" cried Robert in a vain attempt to defend himself.
"Out of kindness to your parents who have a respected name in worldly circles, I will spare you the rope. In the name of the Crown, it will be forced labour in a sugar colony in America," said Turpin without blinking.
He struck his gavel without a glance at Robert, but inwardly Richard gloated. He did. He left the courtroom and went to his office. He threw his powdered wig on a chair before turning to Beadle with a broad smile.
"My friend, once again you have been brilliant," Richard whispered.
"I live only to serve you, my lord," Beadle replied, honeyed.
A week later, Robert boarded a ship for the Americas without his family even trying to buy his freedom. The Crawfords were far too humiliated by their son's actions and in a hope of not falling out of the good graces of the nobility, Crawford senior had publicly disowned his son.
In the cab that took him to Scotland, Richard was torn. Now you knew he had noticed you and if you had read his letter, you knew he loved you. But could you ever love him back ?
What does it matter, he thought. He had gotten rid of that parasite Robert and he would never touch you again. If you were Richard's, his hands would never lay on you to hurt you. Oh, he would make you scream, for sure, but only from pleasure. But would you be able to see beyond the shadows that surrounded him ?
As Christmas approached, that holiday that Richard abhorred more than anything, the Scottish moor was already covered in a thin white film. The smoking smoke from his house indicated that you were nice and warm and he had no doubt that the old governess was watching over you as he had asked her to.
"Lord Turpin," you murmured when he came back into the living room where you were busy embroidering a handkerchief.
"Miss [Y/S], I wanted to come in person to tell you that you have nothing more to fear. Never."
You looked down, intimidated, before telling him in a whisper that you had read his letter. Richard looked at you attentively but you did not dare to look up at him. For the first time, he was unable to probe the mind of another human being.
"And ?" he finally dared to ask.
"5 years is a long time," you said, finally plunging your eyes into his, "why did you never say anything ?"
Richard sighed, searching for the right words without scaring you.
"Because I am a coward," he finally said. "Not in a courtroom, not in the middle of a crowd of nobles, not in a political plot. But in front of you, I am nothing more than a man and a coward."
His raw sincerity disarmed you for a moment.
"But why me ? I'm just a merchant's daughter. A little governess barely educated enough to teach other little girls to read. And you... you're Lord Richard Turpin."
Richard approached you gently and reached out to caress your cheek. You shivered slightly but at no point did you try to pull away.
"You are the sweetness. The light. Perhaps my redemption," he replied softly.
You looked at him, not knowing what to say. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you, but he finally pulled away. Immediately, you missed the warmth of his hand on your cheek.
"Will you come back to London with me?" he asked you with ill-concealed hope.
"Yes," you breathed with an emotion you couldn't quite define.
The journey home was long, but Richard made sure you had everything you needed. Every time you shivered, he would adjust a blanket around your shoulders, pay for the best rooms in the best inns, and make sure the journey didn’t take too much of a toll on you.
“We’ll be back in time for you to celebrate Christmas with your father,” he said one day as you struggled to stay awake.
But to your surprise, when you arrived in London, Richard didn’t take you back to your father. He showed you into his imposing mansion. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior, but not as ornate as you’d imagined, nor as well-kept as one would expect for a man like Richard. There were many cobwebs and a certain amount of disarray. Books were scattered everywhere, and as he led you up a large wooden staircase, you noticed very few servants milling about the manor.
"This whole part of the manor could be yours," Turpin finally said, stopping in the middle of a hallway that housed four different rooms.
"I don't understand," you said, turning your large green eyes toward him.
"The manor is austere, like me, but I'm sure your presence will brighten it. Robert... Robert won't come to haunt you anymore, but your engagement was announced and I don't want you to have to face the whispers and cruelty of the outside world. This manor could be your refuge."
"I... I don't want to force you into anything," you answered timidly.
“Miss [Y/S], you’re not forcing me to do anything,” Richard replied, taking your hand, “you deserve to be cherished, protected. And if you give me permission, I coulds give you all that and more. You deserve more than whispers in tea rooms or sideways glances on the street. Let me be your protector."
"I don't want you to be my protector," you whispered.
A shadow passed over Turpin's face as his heart clenched like a dagger had pierced it, but he recovered so quickly that you could have imagined the flash of pain in his hazel eyes.
"I want a husband."
Richard looked at you, eyes wide as you looked down, your cheeks tinging pink. With a finger, he lifted your head, forcing you to look at him.
"Are you sure about what you just said, [Y/N] ?" Richard asked in his deep voice, using your first name for the first time, "Because once you say yes, there's no going back."
"So be it," you whispered.
Without waiting, Richard's lips landed on yours with passion, ardor, desire. And for the first time, Richard thought that Christmas had a very nice surprise in store for him.
A year later
"My dear, if you continue to eat so many gingerbread cookies you'll get indigestion," Richard said as he sat down nonchalantly next to you on the library couch.
Wrapped in a blanket in front of the fireplace where a good fire was crackling, your aching legs resting on a stool and a book lying next to you, you made a little pouty face.
"It's not me who wants gingerbread cookies, it's the little inhabitant who keeps me awake every night and who prevents me from walking more than five minutes without my feet hurting," you replied as you grabbed another cookie.
Richard, smiled, a real smile, one of those that was reserved only for you. He still sometimes wondered how he had been lucky enough to marry you, you whom he had so often watched in secret, thinking he would never be able to have you. And yet, you had chosen him despite these faults. Your light was enough to balance his darkness.
"Enough biscuit," Richard finally said, taking the plate away from you as you were about to take a third, "it's time for bed, my dear."
And without giving you time to protest, he lifted you up as if you weighed nothing to take you to the room you shared. As often, he helped you take off your dress and put on your nightgown and while you settled under the covers, he came to sit next to you. In a caring gesture, he placed a hand on your round belly.
"It would be wise to let your mother sleep tonight. She is particularly insolent when she is sleep deprived," Richard said in a soft voice.
You smiled, shaking your head before placing your hand on his.
"I hope it will be a girl. A little girl who will give you a hard time," you joked.
"My dear, whether it is a son or a daughter doesn't matter to me, either one or another will be loved as much because they will be a part of you."
He kissed you tenderly, grateful for the second chance you were giving him, promising himself that the world would never come to hurt the child to come,. This child who was his redemption. He would watch carefully to it. In secret.
Chapter 3: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 3 - A TREAT
Summary:
It's December, Sinclair's favorite time of year, at least before his divorce. But this year, it will be his first Christmas with a woman who truly loves him for who he is, not for what he represents. She is his special treat.
Notes:
Warning : Smut here ! Under 18, go away !
This is the part 2 of I am yours. You can find this fic here on AO3 =)
Chapter Text
Two months. It had been two months since you had finally offered yourself to Sinclair for his greatest happiness. Officially, you had been a couple for eight months, but it had taken you time to offer yourself to him and to feel comfortable enough to tell him your little secret. Well, you hadn't really told him, Sinclair had guessed and you had simply confirmed.
It was now the beginning of December. The week before, you had celebrated your birthday, a drizzly day in November but that Sinclair had managed to brighten up with his presence. And with a chocolate cake, your favorite. He hadn't forgotten. Some people like to make fun of him by saying that he always talks without ever letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, but that's not true, he knew how to listen too.
Today, you were both busy decorating the tree that stood in the beige-toned living room. The warm atmosphere of the room, illuminated by the garlands and the small colored lights that blinked all around you made the living room even more comforting than usual.
"This tree is a little too big, isn't it ?" you asked, laughing softly.
"It doesn't even touch the ceiling," Sinclair replied, kissing your temple.
This was your first Christmas together. The fifth for him since the divorce with the one-who-was-no-longer-named. Well, in your head, you nicknamed her the bitch who had fucked her brother.
"What do you normally do at Christmas ?" you asked, hanging a glass ball on the tree.
"When I was a kid, we had big, lavish parties. My parents' whole house was decorated: big trees, luxurious dinners, expensive gifts. The kids stayed in the playroom most of the time. Honestly, it was kind of boring."
You looked away, a little embarrassed. It was obvious that you and Sinclair didn't come from the same world, even if it had never bothered him.
"With... With you know who, it was always very cold. If I threw a big party, she told me she felt left out, if we were invited to my parents' house, she said he made fun of her - which is totally false ! - and if it was just the two of us... well, I wasn't enough for her. And nothing I could offer her was ever enough," he said bitterly.
He fell silent, his cheeks slightly red, as if he regretted talking about her. You took his hand in yours and gave him a small smile. Sinclair tried not to mention his ex-wife in front of you so as not to hurt you, but sometimes, it was stronger than him, he needed to talk about it. You didn't mind, you understood that he was still terribly scarred by what she had done to him and you appreciated knowing that he trusted you enough to open up and share what was still hurting him today.
"But after the divorce, and after an exorbitant amount of therapy, I learned to love the holidays again like I did before... her."
"At home, we didn't really have any traditions," you said to lighten the mood and distract Sinclair from his gloomy memories, "it was just my parents and I. We'd eat a simple meal and then spend the evening in front of the TV watching Christmas movies. But it was never really a big holiday in our house."
"Do you regret it ?" Sinclair asked sincerely.
You thought for a moment before shaking your head.
"Not really. When I was little, we spent Christmas at my grandmother's house with my father's whole family and it was so... hypocritical. Everyone pretended to get along and smiled at each other falsely. Of course, I was too young to understand, but once I was a teenager, those Christmas parties became heavy. When my grandmother felt too old to host us all, we started to do it just the three of us and it was fine like that... And then... as an introvert, big crowds tire me out quickly," you added with a small smile.
"I know, and I am eternally grateful to you for accompanying me to all my professional parties," Sinclair said with a smile even brighter than the garland he was diligently hanging on the wall.
"It's normal, I want to be with you. That's what good girlfriends do !"
Sinclair's smile widened even more.
"Are you glad your parents are here for New Year's ?"
"Yes, they love you," you replied, handing him a thumbtack.
Your parents had met Sinclair shortly before you moved in with him, and your mother had told you that it might have taken you a while to decide, but at least you had chosen well. Your mother never made a mistake, and you had known she was the right one. As for your father, all it took was for Sinclair to start talking to him about sea fish for him to fall under her spell.
"I'm glad to spend this Christmas in a simpler way," Sinclair said in his deep voice as he stepped down from his stepladder.
"Really? I don't want you to change your ways for me."
"Not at all. It's you and you alone that I want to be with. This will be our first Christmas and I love this simplicity."
He kissed you tenderly before deepening the kiss. He lifted you up with ease and as your legs wrapped around his hips, he led you into the bedroom to share a tender moment under the sheets filled with caresses, tender kisses and sweet words whispered in your ear.
The following days, you began to create your own traditions. You walked in your favorite park on a sunny and dry but particularly cold afternoon at Sinclair wrapped you in his wool scarf when you started to shiver despite your own scarf and your wool coat lined with silk that he had given you for your birthday.
You had also spent an entire afternoon preparing gingerbread cookies and cupcakes with delicious and colorful decorations with Christmas music in the background and in the evening, to accompany your pastries, you had prepared a hot chocolate garnished with marshmallow.
There had been Christmas movie nights of course, but also board game nights and many reading nights during which you took turns reading your favorite novels, sometimes introducing the other to an author they would never have thought of reading before.
And slowly but surely, the days had passed until December 24th. Sinclair, who had worked all month, was finally enjoying a well-deserved day off. In the early morning, you had left him to enjoy a restful sleep and had gone to prepare his favorite breakfast: fried eggs with sausages, bacon and warm toast. You had also prepared a hot chocolate that you hoped would soothe his irritated throat and you had left a bar of honey-filled chocolate, your favorite.
You woke him up with a series of kisses on the back of his neck, but without you expecting it, Sinclair turned you over with a fluid movement and you found yourself pinned to the mattress, Sinclair pinning you before his solid body.
His lips crushed gently on yours as one of his hands moved up the t-shirt - his t-shirt - that you had worn to sleep. His lips traveled down your throat and, in one movement, Sinclair removed your t-shirt to let his lips travel down your almost naked body.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered in your ear.
"Keep going," you told him as you buried your fingers in his dark blond hair.
His lips traveled down to the bottom of your stomach as his fingers played with the edge of your pajama pants. You lifted your hips slightly and he slid your pants and panties down your pale legs before throwing them to the floor.
You placed your cold hands underneath Sinclair’s shirt, making him shiver slightly but, far from turning him away, he continued to explore your body, his tongue gently caressing your clit.
“Sinclair, please,” you whispered as one of his fingers teased your entrance.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to tease your clit, his eagle-beaked nose pressing just where it should have been to make you moan without giving you the release you craved.
Just as you were about to come, Sinclair stopped, chuckling softly when you let out a small frustrated groan. He then got rid of his boxers, and positioned himself at your entrance, his hard member teasing your soaking pussy, ready for him.
He gave you a tender look to make sure you were ready. A nod from you, and he was already slowly sinking into you, his slow and calculated thrusts sending shocks throughout your body.
"Faster," you said in a breath.
Sinclair didn't need to be asked twice, his movements intensified, but still with a certain reserve. His member was longer than average and even if since your first time you had shared several nights together, you remained inexperienced and you were still learning to recognize what you liked and didn't like while he guided you with patience and love.
"Sin... Sinclair," you stammered as you felt your orgasm building inside you.
"I love you, [Y/N]," Sinclair said breathlessly.
"I love you too," you replied, one of your hands gripping his hair and the other sliding down his back.
Sinclair picked up the pace a little more, his eyes closed as if he was trying to stay focused as your toes curled against the sheets and your nipples hardened with each new thrust from Sinclair.
"[Y/N], I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."
Sinclair didn't have time to finish his sentence as his orgasm caused shockwaves into your vagina, triggering your own orgasm. Feeling your tight pussy contract against his cock, Sinclair let out a grunt of satisfaction, a primal grunt that made your own chest vibrate.
Sinclair kissed you one last time, then pulled out, leaving you with an empty feeling that he quickly filled by holding you close to him.
"Thanks for breakfast," Sinclair whispered, making you laugh softly.
The rest of the day passed in relative calm. You were wearing casual clothes. You had nothing planned and no one was going to disturb your little cocoon of warmth and intimacy. In the living room, the tree was shining brightly, on the TV, "Die Hard" was distracting you and the cinnamon and orange scented candles added a pleasant touch. You were wrapped up in a fluffy blanket, leaning against Sinclair's chest, who was totally absorbed in the movie, so much so that he had forgotten his bowl of popcorn.
Well sheltered, protected from the cold outside and the snow that had started to fall at the end of the morning, covering the garden and the windowsills with a white blanket, you felt good, safe in each other's arms. And for the first time in a long time, Sinclair felt serene.
After the movie, you headed to the kitchen. You had taken care of the main course: vegetarian lasagna, and Sinclair of the dessert, a surprise you knew nothing about. The smell of tomato sauce and grilled cheese perfumed the entire kitchen. Sinclair was busy preparing the table while you watched the lasagna. When you came back with the dishes, you saw Sinclair's effort to prepare a pretty festive table. He had laid out a pretty white tablecloth decorated with gold snowflakes. Candles provided an intimate atmosphere and in the background you could hear Wham!.
"I can't wait to taste your lasagna !" Sinclair exclaimed as he sat down at the table with an almost childish excitement.
You had done well to have planned two large dishes of lasagna. Sinclair had several helpings and he was already looking forward to knowing that there would be some more for the next day... or for the evening if he ever got a little hungry.
"Please, this is my first try so don't make fun of me if it's inedible," he said as he arrived with his dessert.
It was a Christmas Pudding that looked... unappealing. But you said nothing, waiting to taste it to give your opinion. If the visual aspect was not the most inviting, the taste was exquisite.
"You're too demanding of yourself, Sinclair. It's delicious," you said between bites.
Your sincerity, your happy and loving gaze, erased all his fears. With you, he didn't aim for perfection. All he wanted was to see that glow of pride, contentment and reassurance, mixed with the obvious love you had for him.
You shared a hot, foamy bath enhanced with lavender essential oil accompanied by champagne. You dozed gently against him as he told you how sparkling white wine had become champagne. He continued by telling you about Henry II and how his conquest of Gascony had allowed the introduction of viticulture in the United Kingdom while wrapping you in a thick bathrobe.
A few hours before Christmas, you settled back into the living room, both of you covered with a blanket. Sinclair was reading Emily Bronte's work out loud while you absently stroked his arm, wondering how you had managed to be so lucky, to have met such a man and for him to have let you into his life without knowing that Sinclair was asking himself the same question.
"A hot chocolate?" he asked suddenly, making you jump slightly.
You nodded and smiled gratefully. Except that when he came back, Sinclair was not only holding a steaming cup in his hand, but a small package that he handed to you with barely contained excitement.
You opened the velvet box under his watchful gaze. Inside, there was a gold mesh bracelet with several small pendants.
"Sinclair! This is too much!" you exclaimed, moved.
"Nothing is too much for you," Sinclair answered sincerely, taking the bracelet to put it on your wrist. "A book, because you were reading Sense and Sensibility the first time I had the courage to talk to you, a cup, for the milkshakes you drink every day, a car so that you have one of my passions with you, a clover so that you always have luck and a heart," he listed as he presented each pendant to you one by one.
"My heart," he added almost shyly, a rare occurrence for Sinclair.
You kissed him without hesitation and he hugged you.
"I'm a little ashamed to give you my gift now," you said with a little redness in your cheeks.
"I'm sure I'll love it !" Sinclair exclaimed excitedly.
You went to get it, hidden among your beauty products, and handed it to him a little shyly. You had spent weeks and weeks to finish it on time. It was only yesterday afternoon that you had finally managed to complete your work, albeit imperfect.
You would have liked to give Sinclair something more beautiful, but he already had all the books in the world including first editions - not that you could have given him a first edition on your meager salary as a receptionist for a private school - and you had never seen him wear jewelry.
"[Y/N], it's beautiful," Sinclair said as he unwrapped a hand-knitted scarf.
You weren't really convinced, but nothing could have made you doubt his sincerity, especially when he wrapped it around his neck without hesitation.
"I know it's not much..." you started, but he interrupted you almost immediately.
"It's perfect ! Just what I needed to keep warm this winter."
And just like I will always protect your heart, Sinclair, you thought without daring to say it out loud.
He hugged you and you settled back on the couch. Sinclair turned on the TV just in time to see the beginning of Little Women, a movie he knew you loved. He absently played with the bracelet that hung around your wrist, smiling to himself. There, in the comfort of your home, in the warm caring embrace, he felt at peace.
Nothing mattered anymore. Past failures, loneliness, Natalie and Richard, nothing. Except you. You and the calm with which you surrounded his existence, soothing the demons of his past that had haunted him for so long, reminding him again and again of the burning pain of the humiliation he had felt.
As midnight struck, announcing Christmas, and the snow fell harder, Sinclair observed your peaceful face on which the glow of a candle danced. You had finally fallen asleep, totally abandoned in his arms, in full trust. His heart swelled with love. You had become, in a short time, the center of his universe, his source of joy, peace, love.
You were his present and his future. You were his special treat.
Chapter 4: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 4 - DARKEST NIGHT
Summary:
Upon waking, Rose knows. David is dead. And she wants to join him. Her father, Lieutenant General Frank Benson, is willing to do anything to bring her back to life, to anchor her to reality, but nothing works. Until that Christmas Eve, when a strange apparition finally gives her the courage to take a step toward life.
Notes:
Warnings : Angst. Depression. Mention of suicide.
Chapter Text
Twenty-three days. Rose Benson Friedman had been in a coma for 23 days. At her side, her father, Lieutenant General Frank Benson, his face drawn, had gotten up quickly when his eyes began to flutter.
His daughter, his beloved granddaughter whom he had not seen for a long time, was finally waking up. Frank still remembered the terror he had felt when a certain Sadie had called him to tell him that his only daughter was in a coma after her heart had stopped. But when the woman had told him that her stepson, David Friedman, had died, Frank felt his heart stop.
He had taken the first flight to New Orleans where the famous Sadie had picked him up at the airport. She had explained to him how David had lost his life during an operation and how little she knew about what had happened to Rose.
Now the heavy task of telling her that her husband was dead fell upon him and Frank didn't know how he was going to do it. The last thing he wanted was to be the one to break her heart. But for now, he stood beside her, hopeful, his cold little hand in hers, encouraging her to wake up.
"Come on, Rose. I'm here, I'm close to you," he whispered to her relentlessly.
And Rose finally opened her eyes. A slight haze in her hazy gaze suggested that she didn't really know where she was. At least that's what Frank thought.
"David," she whispered, "David..."
"Sweetheart," Frank said, running his hand through her hair.
Rose then began to cry, her shaking hands clutching the sheet as her tears turned into sobs.
"Please, David !" she shouted.
"Rose... calm down," Frank said calmly but firmly.
But nothing worked and soon Rose's sobs turned into screams and a nurse rushed into the room to inject her with a sedative.
When she woke up again, several hours later, Rose was calmer. The white, sanitized room echoed with Rose's acute pain and the sound of her heart beating regularly as it was connected to the medical equipment. Frank, whose face betrayed his fatigue, was still at her side.
"Rose, my darling..."
"Don't say anything," she interrupted him sharply, "please, don't say anything. Don't say anything. Nothing at all ! Don't say anything !"
Frank took her hand in his, but Rose pulled it away abruptly and turned to face the window, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She knew. She knew without her father having to tell her anything. She knew that David wouldn't come to pick her up from the hospital, that he would never share a lazy Sunday morning in bed again, that he would never fight over what movie they were going to watch together on Saturday nights again, and that she would never tell him "take care of yourself" before he left for work again.
Rose felt this floating sensation, like her mind was trying to disconnect from her body to ease her emotional pain. But nothing worked. David was dead, her world had just collapsed, the pain was overwhelming her. David would never come back. He had come to tell her during his coma.
When she had told her father, he had answered that she had probably dreamed it even though he had found it strange. But even stranger was that David had told her that she was suffering from severe heart failure, he had not known what to say. He had ended up assuming that in her coma, she had been able to hear the doctor who had come to explain her pathology to her and that her unconscious had absorbed the announcement by softening it with the presence of David in her dreams. But now that she was wide awake, that the pain was constantly overwhelming her, the fight between life and death had really begun for Rose... and she did not want life to win.
Heart failure. A scary word to say that her heart was no longer fulfilling its functions as it should and that she was going to have to take beta-blockers. It was not a long-term solution. She would end up needing a new heart. In the meantime, she could live more or less normally provided that she remained under surveillance and avoided strong emotions. Frank had laughed, a bitter laugh, when he heard that. David's death would trigger more than just strong emotions. It would break his beloved little girl.
The day after Rose woke up, the heart surgeon who had saved her life had come to tell her everything she already knew. She hadn't felt the warning symptoms, but now they were there. She was exhausted and had trouble breathing. But she wasn't sure if this feeling of exhaustion was related to her insufficiency. She rather had the impression that it was due to the oppression she was feeling. That feeling of dying deep inside herself, knowing she would never see David again, the man of her life.
"You can't live like this forever," the doctor had said, "in the long term, you'll have to consider a heart transplant because the drugs won't be able to keep you alive ad vitam æternam."
Rose had shrugged without answering. As if she still wanted to live now that she was alone to face the world, life, the coldness of the world. But Frank, who had immediately seen his daughter's abandonment, didn't agree. That night, he had gently lectured her with a tenderness he only showed her, but Rose hadn't listened to him.
Sadie had come to see her several times, but there again, Rose had been indifferent, responding with monosyllables.
Rose was suffering. Not because her heart had tried to kill her and was no longer working properly. She was hurting because now she existed in a world where David no longer existed.
When she got out of the hospital, Rose had returned to the house she shared with David, her father always with her, following her like a shadow. Frank had always been a protective father and seeing his daughter fly to the United States had broken his heart, but also awakened his worst protective instincts. Such a big country, so dangerous and his child so innocent. But when she had married David, he had felt reassured. David, despite his gruff exterior, was a good, caring man and he had known from the moment he had met him that Rose would be safe. But now she was alone, alone in a big city with a fragile heart and a broken mind.
He had practically begged her to come back with him to Keighley, the small town where they had moved when she was still a little girl. He and his wife, Rose's mother, had found a certain tranquility in this small town where Frank, after his military career, had found a well-deserved peace. The happiness after his retirement had lasted only two years before his wife died within a few months of breast cancer. But he had overcome that loss like all the other suffering he had had to face in his life and now he hoped that Rose would be able to do the same.
"Come back to the UK with me," Frank had pleaded.
"What for ?" Rose had asked coldly, "counting sheep and watching you garden without ever being able to grow a single vegetable ?" she had added vehemently.
Far from letting it get to him, Frank had told her that it was better to try and grow vegetables without success than to vegetate on a sofa night and day staring at the ceiling.
Stung, Rose had locked herself in her room until the evening when, after a shower that had soothed her tense muscles, she had gone downstairs to join her father in the living room where Frank was watching a poorly translated telenovela.
"If I leave, then I'm completely abandoning David," Rose told him as she sat down next to him.
Frank turned to her and took her hand in his.
"Rose, my darling, David is not coming back," he told her softly.
"I know. I know, but we've built our whole lives in this house, in this town."
"Rose, David would want the best for you. He wouldn't want you to stay alone in this house and being nothing more than a shadow. He wouldn't want you to be alone when your heart is in trouble. Come back to Keighley with me. I'll watch over you. You'll learn to rebuild yourself. I promise you that the struggle you're having now with your fragility will turn into the hope of a new life."
"Dad, I'm scared," Rose said, tears streaming down her eyes.
Frank took her in his arms, gently stroking her brown curls like when she was a little girl and she'd come to find comfort in his arms when the girls at school teased her for no reason. And just like when she was a child, Rose immediately felt safe, finding comfort in her father's strong arms.
"Everything will be okay, Rose. You'll get over this. And you'll be stronger."
"Or I'll die," Rose whispered.
"No !" Frank replied firmly, "Don't say that. Don't think the worst. You're going to take your medicine, you're going to rest, you're going to rebuild yourself and you're going to get a new heart. And you'll see that at some point, everything will fall into place, everything will be back to normal."
"How could things be back to normal when the love of my life was killed in action ?" Rose spat as she pulled away from Frank, "I don't want to live, I want to be with David !"
"ENOUGH !" Frank shouted despite himself.
He couldn't stand to hear his daughter talk like that. To give so little importance to her life, this fragile life that she had almost lost.
"You're alive. You've been given a second chance. Take it ! That's not what David would want for you."
"David doesn't want anything anymore. He's dead," Rose said coldly before returning to her room.
There, she collapsed on the bed, crying. She sobbed for a long time before finally falling asleep.
A month. She remained wandering like a shadow for a month. And Frank, as a loving father and with infinite patience, waited. He stayed close to her as he longed to return to his little house in Keighley, his garden and his goat which, for the moment, was in the good care of his neighbour Mercedes, a woman 13 years younger than him who, every time he saw her, made him feel like he was 20 again.
A month in which he had been patient and firm. And finally, Rose agreed to sell the house she shared with David and to return to the United Kingdom with her father.
It didn't take long for the cozy little house where she had built a home filled with love and joy with the man she loved more than anything to find a buyer. She put half of the money in a bank account in David's daughter's name. She would have access to this money when she turned 25. She went to say goodbye to the little girl who cried as much as she did, but Rose knew she would get over it quickly. After all, she was just her father's new wife. She would probably miss her father for the rest of her life, but she would have her mother to keep a connection with David.
Rose, she had nothing left but her memories. She would never get over it. She knew it. Before David, she had never loved and there would be no after David. And now, she was back to square one, living with her old man, losing all her independence.
"It's better this way, Rose," Frank had said, "you have no one in the United States and you have to think about your health, that's the most important thing now. Your health and your future. Everything will be fine, you'll see, I'll take care of you."
Rose didn't even bother to answer him. Although she knew that Frank was acting with all the best intentions in the world, that he was acting like a father, she was struggling too much between the path imposed by her father who wanted to anchor her to the present and the past that she couldn't get rid of. Although Rose knew that the second chance that life was offering her was a gift, that she would have to fight for her survival, the sad truth was that she only wanted one thing: to find David.
"There's nothing left here for me," she whispered to herself.
When they arrived in Keighley, Rose wanted to cry. For David, for this heart that was broken in every sense of the word, for this return to her father. She felt like a child trapped in a life she didn't want. She felt like she was losing all her independence. Deep down, though, she knew he was right. In the United States, she had no one and her job didn't provide enough medical coverage for her to be able to take care of herself properly. Because her health insurance also depended on David.
"I asked Mercedes to prepare your room. You'll be fine, Rose. You'll be able to rest, regain your strength. And next week, we'll go to the hospital. Dr. Reeves confirmed that he's already received your file. He'll explain the procedure for you to receive your new heart."
Rose, sitting next to him in the taxi that was taking them home, wasn't even listening. Her mind, even more fragile than her body, had plunged her into a kind of torpor, a wavering between life and death, a fight she wasn't sure she wanted to win.
England made her want to scream. As the taxi drove, everything seemed cold, distant and damp. The colours seemed dull, the landscape bleak, nothing, absolutely nothing had changed. Keighley, this town she hated and had happily left, imprisoned her again. It was the kind of town you can never leave, that sinks its fangs deep into you and brings you back to it by any means necessary.
Arriving at the small, well-kept house, Rose went straight up to her room. Nothing had changed: the same pale green and creamy white walls, the same old Leonardo DiCaprio poster, her frog collection in a display case that had obviously been cleaned - probably the famous Mercedes that had had a bit of cleaning - and the same old plum-coloured blankets. Rose wanted to scream, to throw up, to cry, to run away as fast as she could. But she was too tired, too broken.
"You should take a shower and rest a little," Frank had said, wanting to stroke Rose's hair, but she had pulled away abruptly before locking herself in the bathroom.
And the days passed in Rose's cold indifference. She almost never left her room, spending her days lying on her bed staring at theof. Even crying had become too tiring for her. It was as if everything was hostile to her, even her childhood home, even her father.
Frank was distraught but he would not give up. He would bring his Rose back to life. This house was also his and he did everything he could to make her feel at home. He had filled the cupboards with her favorite chocolates, the tea he knew she normally drank every morning and by rearranging the small room she used to paint and which he had transformed into a small sanctuary with her medals and military books. In less than a day, he had emptied it and installed a whole bunch of painting equipment that he did not even know the use of.
But nothing seemed to find favor in Rose's eyes. Her pain, her sorrow, was so deep that she felt like she was suffocating in murky water that wanted to drown her. And Frank, pragmatic and a little rigid, did not understand how his daughter, his little warrior, this survivor who had a strength in her that she herself did not suspect but that he himself did not doubt, knew that she would be able to rebuild herself.
"Rose, my dear, do you want to come and take care of the rose garden with me?" Frank asked her one afternoon when Rose, sitting in an old worn armchair, had been staring at the ground for over an hour already.
"No, I don't want to," Rose replied in a faded voice.
"It would take your mind off things, Rose," Frank insisted.
"The roses will eventually die. What's the point of going to all this trouble?" Rose asked aggressively.
Frank sighed heavily, visibly affected by the behaviour of his daughter whom he did not recognize, but he kept his calm.
"Rose, you can't stay trapped in your memories. You have to make an effort."
Rose gave her a dark look, but nothing that could truly impress Lieutenant General Frank Benson.
"Life, Rose, life is full of pain and hardship. I'm truly sorry that you have to live the worst of it all. But you, you're still alive. Things can still change for you. But you have to take care of yourself and you have to fight," Frank said firmly.
"I'm tired, I'm going to my room," Rose replied coldly.
Frank watched her withdraw sadly, wondering if he would ever be able to break the wall of ice that now surrounded his daughter's broken heart. The cold truth was that Rose was a stranger, even to herself.
Frank went out to tend to his roses. His daughter was right, she would fade and die, but in the spring, she would regain her strength, open up to life again and blossom... like his daughter, or so he hoped.
And day after day, relentlessly, Frank tried to reach Rose. Every morning, he prepared her favourite breakfast: toast, scrambled eggs and tea. Every afternoon, he invited her to share his walk in the small park that was on the outskirts of town. Often, Rose refused, but each time she accepted, it was a real victory for Frank who kept himself from smiling too widely. And every evening, he asked her to keep him company in the living room and he was careful to only put on movies that he knew were Rose's favourites. But despite all his efforts, he could not burst Rose's bubble of pain.
The months passed and December arrived. It was December 4th and Frank was busy getting all the Christmas decorations out of the attic. He hadn't decorated the house since Rose left, but he hoped it would bring her some cheer, that she would find some light in the darkness she had fallen into. He hadn't been there for Christmas much when she was a child and he had always suffered from it. A guilt that still haunted him today.
"Rose, will you help me decorate the house ?" he asked her, poking his head through his daughter's bedroom door.
Rose didn't answer, busy staring at pictures of her and David sprawled out on her bed. She felt lost in a world she found too small for her.
"Rose, please," Frank insisted.
"I don't want to celebrate Christmas. It's not the same without David," she whispered, not looking up from the photo she was staring at, a photo she had taken of herself staring at a bird and David staring at her with all the adoration of a man madly in love with his wife.
"Rose, please. You can't keep withdrawing like that," Frank said, trying to control his voice.
"Leave me alone," Rose said.
"No ! Make an effort, Rose! Why don't you try to take a small step toward life ? Do you think that's what David would want for you ?"
For the first time in a long time, Frank was afraid. Afraid of losing his daughter. He understood that he could nott be able to save her from herself and that tortured him more than all the wars he had fought. Rose had become his new battle, but this one, he was not sure he would triumph.
"David is dead, he wants nothing, nothing at all," Rose spat coldly.
Frank felt a wave of anger rise in him. He stomped into the room and grabbed his daughter by the shoulders, shaking her gently.
"But I am alive ! I am here, Rose ! For you ! And I love you more than anything ! Everything I have done in my life, I have done for you. You are sick Rose and you need a new heart, but for that, you must hold on to your life. You have to realize that, you have to listen to me, you have to help me help you."
Rose didn't react and Frank immediately released her, immediately regretting what he had just done. But he was desperate.
He decorated the house all by himself, his heart heavy. He had never had such a strained relationship with his daughter. She had to get out of the house, see people, find activities that would interest her, stimulate her intellectually. She had to heal and take care of herself or she would never be able to receive her new heart.
He hung the balls on the tree while holding back his tears. The last time he had cried was when his wife died. Today, it was his daughter who made him suffer. He was consumed by the idea of losing her. He was torn between being firmer or giving her more space so that she could find the strength within herself to rebuild herself. He didn't know, he no longer knew which solution was the right one.
And the days continued to pass, and Rose continued to withdraw into herself, indifferent to everything. If Frank didn't cook, she didn't eat, if he didn't insistently remind her to take her medication, she didn't take it, if he didn't come to wake her up in the morning, Rose stayed in bed all day wrapped in her blankets as if it allowed her to forget her pain, to forget for a moment that David would never hold her in his arms again.
And so December 24th arrived, leaving Rose even emptier than before. The decorations, the fire in the fireplace and the Christmas tunes only reminded her that David was dead. He wouldn't complain about the Christmas songs that Rose played on repeat in the house, about the mince pies that she prepared in too great a quantity and about the thumbtack that he would have planted in his finger rather than the wall while hanging the string of lights that Rose had chosen with David's daughter.
And Frank watched her sink a little more with worry. She was distant, as if nothing held her to life anymore. As if she had no hope anymore. She didn't even go out to accompany him on his daily walk and barely spoke to him. Rose was lost and he was no longer her compass. David was her compass in the storms, but now that David was no longer there, Rose was only a shadow, a spectre already at death's door.
"Rose, come watch TV with me," Frank asked, sitting down next to her on the bed."
Rose didn't answer, staring resolutely at the ceiling.
"Please. I want to help you. Together, we can get through this. You can't live in David's shadow, you have to move on."
"Why ? Why trying ? I've failed at everything in my life. I didn't finish college, I had a crappy job here in Keighley, then in Louisiana, and now I'm back home. David was the only thing that brought me happiness, that made me want to live," Rose said nonchalantly.
A lump formed in Frank's throat. He had never known that Rose had ever felt such unease in her life. She had always seemed fulfilled to him despite the few failures she had experienced in her twenties, but failures, Frank thought, were part of life, they shaped you, taught you to discover yourself and become stronger.
"Rose, give yourself a chance. You're only 33, it's not too late to rebuild yourself, to move forward. Do you want to go back to school? You can. You can do anything you want, I'll support you. Please, Rose, fight!" Frank said with more force than he would have liked.
Rose didn't answer, clenching her jaw to keep herself from telling her father to go to hell, a man she loved deeply despite everything.
Frank felt frustration, anger and helplessness growing inside him. All these months of trying to comfort her, to be patient, to give her time without ever forcing her too much had been for nothing. Today, he was angry. His fists clenched, his chest tight with anxiety, he felt that each second was pushing Rose further away from life. He couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't pretend any longer. He had to confrconfront reality, the harshness of the world, his own responsibility for forcing her to go through her pain by anchoring himself to life and if he had to hurt her, he would. Violently, his fist fell on the bedside table, making his daughter jump.
"You're letting yourself die, Rose! You have no right to do that ! David would never have wanted that for you !"
Rose opened her mouth to interrupt him but Frank stopped her with a gesture.
"Do you think he'd be happy to see you like this ? You only think about yourself Rose ! But you don't care. You're suffering and you want everyone around you to suffer. You're going to make me die Rose. Your behavior is killing me !"
Rose looked away, holding back tears. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands, almost bleeding, but she wouldn't let her father see that he was getting to her.
"You're not the only one who lost someone, Rose ! I lost the love of my life too. Do you think it's less important because I'm old ?! You're destroying yourself, Rose, you're letting this pain consume you instead of coming out of it stronger."
With shaking hands, he took Rose's face in his large, calloused hands, forcing her to plunge her green eyes into his hazel gaze.
"I love you, Rose. You're my little girl and I will never abandon you."
Rose's breathing quickened. She tried to pull away, but her father firmly stopped her.
"Do you want to die ? NO !" Frank shouted, shaking her, "you're going to live ! You're going to wake up. David is dead, but you're alive and you're going to live for him, for you !"
Her father's words were like a slap. She shivered violently and Frank released her. Out of breath, Rose glared at Frank, a look that gave the father hope. For the first time, his daughter's eyes weren't empty, there was a glimmer of defiance, of rebellion, a slight flame that was starting to burn again.
"You don't understand anything, nothing at all. You don't know what I feel," Rose said angrily, closing her eyes as if to escape from the reality she had tried to ignore that was suddenly catching up with her.
"You're all I have left, Rose, I couldn't survive losing you," Frank said, letting go of the dam that had been holding back his tears for so long.
"I can't live without David. I'm in too much pain. By losing David, I lost everything," Rose said, crying in turn.
"You haven't lost everything. You can still get up, start over. You are the most precious thing to me and if I have to fight for you, if I have to force myself to force you to hold on to life, I will do it even if you hate me for it. Hate me, but live !"
"I don't want to be saved. Let me go," Rose said in a whisper.
"NEVER !" Frank shouted, "Never," he repeated, gripping her shoulders tightly in his hands.
Rose pulled away and in a whisper, she asked him to leave. Frank hesitated, but he knew he had opened a breach, that he had succeeded in reaching his daughter who for her part did not want to lose her father. But her pain was much heavier than everything else. Rose was at a crossroads and Frank, for his part, was well aware that he could not make the final decision for her. So he left, wishing her good night, hoping that she would think a little and wake up with clearer ideas, after a good night full of advice.
Except that Rose had already made her decision several days ago. She had chosen to run away. She had chosen to leave everything. She had chosen death.
She got up, wiping her eyes with an angry gesture, approached the window to observe the frost that was biting the floors and removed the blade that she had wrapped in a scarf, hidden in the drawer of her dresser.
She lit the lavender candle, David's favourite scent, slowly unrolled the scarf, a gift from David, and placed the blade against her wrist.
"I'm coming to join you, my love," Rose whispered, closing her eyes.
The hand that held the blade was shaking. What if she didn't find him ? What if there was nothing ? In the living room, the TV was blaring, her father was watching a Christmas show where the presenter announced that there were only five minutes left until Christmas.
Still with her eyes closed, Rose relived her first meeting with David, this tall, dark man with his beak nose and his devastating smile. She remembered their second meeting, where he had arrived disheveled, explaining to her that he had not had time to go home to change after a stormy investigation. The day she had taken care of his nose and cheekbones that had been beaten by a suspect. All those nights of love. David's untraditional marriage proposal. Their small wedding, their plans and hopes. Now, there would never be a baby with the love of her life. There was no soulmate left, just her, alone, with her failing heart that was too broken to be truly repaired anyway. Without him, she was nothing, she was broken, useless, already dead, so she might as well end it for good.
3 minutes before Christmas. Rose opened her eyes, determined. That's when a familiar figure appeared outside. Rose's heart began to beat faster as she approached the window. It was... no, it couldn't be him !
She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and he was still there, more distinct even if his figure seemed a little ethereal. Rose dropped the blade, which thudded to the floor, and rushed down the stairs so fast she almost broke her neck. She threw the door open and stepped out.
She wasn't dreaming. He was there. In the dim street light, his hair undone, his little smile that seemed to hide a secret known only to him.
"Am I going crazy ?" Rose asked, tears in her eyes.
"You always were a little, my dear," he said in his baritone voice.
She threw herself into his arms. He was there. She could touch him. Feel him.
"David," she said in a sob.
"Your father is right, I'm not very happy," he scolded her lightly.
Rose pulled away, her cheeks slightly pink.
"You have to fight, my dear."
"I don't want to live without you."
"You have to. You have the strength within you to get back up and face whatever life throws at you. I'm dead, but I'll always be here with you," he said, placing his hand on Rose's chest, where her heart was.
"You're dead."
"Yes, but you're not. And I came back, for you."
"David, I can't imagine a life without you."
"Rose, I love you. I loved you instantly. I don't want to see you waste the rest of your life for a memory. I'm dead, but you're not. You have to fight, my darling."
"David..." Rose whispered, not knowing what to say.
She couldn't help but think that she had lost her mind. David was dead, she knew it, but yet, here he was, in front of her.
"You have to take care of yourself. Eat properly, sleep, get outside, get some fresh air, get some exercise, anything that will keep you fit, make you strong enough to receive your new heart."
"I don't want a new heart. I want you," Rose said, crying hot tears.
David took her in his arms and held her with all his strength.
"I will stay with you for as long as you need me. But you have to fight !"
"David..."
"Fight, Rose !"
"David..."
"Promise me !" he insisted.
Rose recognized this as the man she had married. Demanding, who didn't like to be upset. Firm and gentle. Loving and protective.
"Rose, promise !"
"I promise. Only if you stay," she said, letting all her vulnerability show.
"Always."
David kissed her forehead before ordering her to go inside and get warm before she got pneumonia.
"You're not leaving, are you ?"
"Never."
Rose walked back into the house, her blood pounding in her temples. David. He was there. And she was pretty sure she hadn't lost her mind. Or maybe she had, she wasn't sure. At this point, all she knew was that her true love was there, that he had taken her in his arms, that he had told her to fight and promised to stay with her.
She timidly went into the living room, just to make sure she was awake and that her father was there, that this wasn't a dream. Frank looked up tiredly at his daughter. On the TV, the newscaster had started counting down. There were only thirty seconds left until Christmas.
"Dad," Rose whispered.
"My little darling," Frank said, standing up.
She was coming back, he could see it, she was anchoring herself to life, right before his eyes.
Gently, he took her in his arms, stroking her brown curls. His chin resting on the top of his daughter's head, Frank whispered that everything would be okay, that he would watch over her. He was relieved to feel her letting go, even though he could feel all the fatigue and confusion of his only child.
"I'll always be there for you, Rose, no matter where you are," he whispered in her ear.
Rose felt a strange sense of comfort, something she hadn't felt since she woke up in the hospital.
"Daddy, I love you so much," Rose said in a low, almost imperceptible whisper.
Frank held her tighter against him. The road would still be long, the healing was not yet at the end of the road, but Rose had just taken a first step.
"Everything is fine, you are not alone. You will not face all this alone, I am with you, my darling."
5... 4... 3... 2...1...
The fireworks began toexplode on the television. Christmas had finally arrived. Rose looked up and in the doorway, David was looking at her, his eyes shining, a big smile lighting up his normally hard and closed face.
"Merry Christmas, Dad," Rose whispered as she gently pulled away from her father's embrace.
"Merry Christmas, my darling little girl," Frank said as he placed a kiss on her forehead.
Frank asked her if she wanted to share her Christmas pudding with him and he couldn't hide his smile when she agreed. As he went into the kitchen to get his favourite dessert, David approached his wife slowly, like a feline.
"Merry Christmas, my love," he said as he placed his cold lips on Rose's.
"Merry Christmas, David."
And suddenly, Rose's darkest night had taken a whole new turn. A turn marked by hope and in the midst of all this darkness, a faint light. A glimmer of life in the middle of the night.
Chapter 5: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 5 - OPEN DOORS
Summary:
Five Christmases during which Sinclair realises that sometimes, closing one door opens a thousand others.
Chapter Text
December 24, 2020
Sinclair, for the first time in his 39 years of existence, did not feel like celebrating Christmas. His divorce had been finalized at the very end of November. A difficult divorce, not so much because of his ex-wife who had too much to reproach herself for to really argue about silver vases and spoons, but for the nature of the betrayal.
Sinclair wasn't in the mood to celebrate, but William, his friend and the judge who had finalized his divorce had insisted, telling him that he had been moping for a year now and that it was high time to move on. Or at least try. And it was not like Sinclair not to try.
"Sinclair, my friend, life is a succession of rooms and in each room, there are people who mark your life for better or for worse. Natalie was not a good person and I am sorry for what she did to you, but it is time for you to close this door and open a new one," William had wisely said.
And Sinclair had given in. Not really because he had been convinced by the philosophy of doors and rooms, but because he did not really want to be alone for Christmas, and deep down, he knew that his friend was right. It was time to move on, to turn the page, to close the door. His parents were on a trip to Sardinia and all his friends and colleagues had family plans when he had to mourn the family he would never have.
Family... a word that left a bitter taste in Sinclair's mouth, he who had believed he had found his soul mate in Natalie and the mother of his children. Now he wasn't so sure he'd ever have the chance to have children. He wasn't sure he'd ever fall in love again.
Sinclair shook his head as if to shake off all the bad memories. He was in front of William's house, a bottle of his best champagne in his hand. Sinclair had learned at a young age from his own father that one should never arrive empty-handed. His friend's sumptuous house, which was more of a small manor than a house, had been sumptuously decorated by his wife while the buffet - prepared by professionals - already had his mouth watering in anticipation.
Sinclair rang the bell and William greeted him with reserved kindness.
"You've come ! That's good ! Come in, hurry up."
"For your table," Sinclair said, handing him the bottle.
"A Dom Pérignon ! You shouldn't have," William said, taking the bottle with sparkling eyes.
Sinclair then lingered by the fireplace. It was not his habit, he usually so outgoing, ready to become friends with everyone, he who always had something to say found himself petrified. Natalie had left much more of a mark on his soul than he himself would have believed.
That's when he saw her. Alone in a corner, she seemed to want to disappear, like him. She didn't seem to be from the same world as Richard, or even Sinclair. Probably a friend of his wife who was the headmistress of a private school for girls in central London. Intrigued, Sinclair approached to greet her. She was pretty in her purple dress, a dress he was sure to have seen on a famous singer but he couldn't remember her name.
"Are you all right?" he asked kindly.
She just nodded with a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. But beneath her apparent coldness, Sinclair could see a gentleness and a light that was just waiting to be revealed.
"My name is Sinclair. Sinclair Bryant," he introduced himself.
"Nice to meet you, Sinclair, I'm Contessina," she replied softly.
"It's a very pretty name," Sinclair said sincerely, "not very English," he added with a twinkle of curiosity in his eye.
"My father is Italian," she replied before quickly adding that her mother was English, as if having mixed ancestry was a fault.
Sinclair told her about a trip he had taken to Rome. She admitted, shyly, that she had never had the opportunity to set foot in Italy. Sinclair sensed her unease, so he tried not to brag too much about his travels across Europe. Contessina and he must have had very different childhoods. Sinclair had grown up with a father who had one foot in business and the other in politics and a mother who was a lawyer who had put her career on hold to take care of him after his birth, a sacrifice she had never regretted because in her opinion, her son was her greatest achievement.
"Are you friends with William or his wife?" Sinclair asked casually.
"His wife. I work for her. I teach English and drama."
"Oh ! Are you acting in theatre ?" Sinclair asked with renewed enthusiasm.
Contessina seemed as enthusiastic as Sinclair to talk about one of her passions. And the conversation continued with Sinclair's incessant questions that didn't seem to bother her in the least.
interlocutor, though she asked few in return.
He knew before the meal that she had spent two years at drama school before having to drop out when her parents could no longer afford to pay for her tuition. She had failed to get a scholarship, so she had worked a series of unfulfilling jobs before settling on teaching. It had not been her dream career, at least not when she was a teenager, but she had eventually found a certain comfort in it that had erased her past failures. She lived alone in London, her father having moved to Blairgowrie after her mother died to be closer to his brother, and Sinclair could tell that she must not have made friends easily. She was reserved, though not without wit and intelligence. Talking to her was a treat. She could talk about anything and was not ashamed to admit when she did not know something. But most of all, she was interested in what he was saying and that was a change for Sinclair.
During the meal, he made sure to sit next to her. They continued to talk about everything and nothing and for the first time in a long time, the weight in Sinclair's chest had gone away. He wasn't thinking about the events of almost two years ago. There was no more Natalie, Richard, betrayal in his parents' bed, under his own roof, before his eyes and the eyes of the housekeeper.
Shortly before midnight, the two were sipping a glass of Sinclair's champagne. She had finally dared to ask Sinclair what he did for a living and, although she admitted that she didn't understand much about his job, she listened to him talk passionately about what he did and his clients... who sometimes had unconventional habits.
Midnight finally struck, Christmas arrived and Sinclair felt that in a few days, the new year would finally bring him new peace.
"Merry Christmas, Sinclair," she said with her enigmatic smirk.
"Merry Christmas, Contessina."
A half hour later, much to Sinclair's dismay, she was leaving the party.
"I can give you a ride if you want ?" he offered.
"No, it's not necessary, I don't live far away."
Sinclair doubted it. She was in one of the most expensive neighbourhood in the city, but he didn't insist.
"I was glad to have you as my companion for the evening," she added as she put on her coat and scarf.
"Me too !" Sinclair exclaimed with a big smile, "I didn't notice the time go by."
He watched her go down the steps when suddenly she turned around.
"Sinclair ?"
"Yes ?"
"You should smile more often. It suits you."
And without adding anything else, she disappeared into the night, leaving those simple words etched in Sinclair's mind forever.
He had felt something new but he had preferred not to push it further. He could have asked William to find his phone number, to get everything she knew about Contessina from his wife, but he didn't. He wasn't ready to be hurt again.
However, fate seemed to want to put Contessina in his path. Three months later, Sinclair saw her again at a market. She was buying small perfumes to offer to her students for Easter which would soon arrive and, as if she were a magnet that attracted him, Sinclair had not been able to turn around to avoid her. He had invited her to share lunch with him, then dinner and after that, there had been other dinners, evenings at the movies, galas for his work and then a whole weekend at his place, then a whole week. And slowly but surely, Contessina had made her way into his heart just as Sinclair had made his way into the young woman's.
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December 24, 2021
Over the months, the relationship between Sinclair and Contessina had evolved, had built itself, without rushing, with caution, with respect, with trust. There wasn't a day when the two did not see each other and tonight, Sinclair wanted to take an important step.
It was the first Christmas that Sinclair had had at his place since his divorce and he had decided to do things simply. Contessina was his only guest. He had cooked a simple, unpretentious meal and bought a dessert from his favourite bakery, a dessert without fruit since Contessina had once told him that a dessert with fruit wasn't a real dessert.
The table was elegant. Sinclair had set a white and gold tablecloth on which he had placed candles and a few flowers prettily arranged in the vases he had inherited from his grandmother. In the background, he had put on Christmas carols, as cliché as they come.
"It's beautiful, Sinclair," Contessina said as she discovered the dining room.
Near the door that led to the veranda, the large fir tree dominated, splendid with its multi-coloured light garland and its glass balls.
"Is this a real tree ?" she asked, gently touching the needles.
"Yes. My father didn't like artificial trees. We always had real trees at my house."
"It's funny, my mother didn't like real trees so we always had a synthetic one. A faded green tree. But it didn't take away from the warmth of the party."
It was the first time she wasn't spending Christmas with her dad, but she knew he was fine, doing it with his brother and his family and most important : he was happy that his daughter seemed to have found a good man. He had met Sinclair thrice and he have had a very good impression of the man.
Sinclair smiled at her, gently kissing her temple. Contessina brought a simplicity to his life that he had never known. She didn't seek luxury, she wasn't after her money and she liked simple things. This wasn't really the case for Sinclair who had grown up with money and firmly believed in spending it. He liked beautiful things and collecting expensive objects, but this contrast between them brought a certain balance to his life, a balance that did him good.
"I hope you like it. I spent hours in the kitchen," Sinclair said as he arranged the dishes on the table.
Contessina hadn't imagined that Sinclair was the cooking type, and she was pleasantly surprised, even touched by the attention he had put into making everything perfect for their first Christmas just the two of them.
A little before midnight, Sinclair decreed that it was time to open the presents, as excited as a child, which made Contessina laugh with a crystal-clear laugh that, after a year, still made Sinclair shiver.
"Mine first," she said as she handed him a large package that weighed quite a bit in his small hands.
Sinclair unwrapped it without ceremony and his eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and joy.
"Where did you get that ?" he asked incredulously.
"One of my colleagues knows someone who knows someone who works for an antique dealer."
Sinclair shook his head in disbelief.
"Are you happy ?" she asked shyly.
"Am I happy ? Contessina, you managed to find that impossible to find book of poems ! I didn't even think you would remember it !"
Sinclair kissed her tenderly and a slight red colour rose on the young woman's cheeks. Of course she had remembered what he had told her. She was like that, reserved, speaking little although she had many interesting things to say, but she always remembered the important things. Like him, except that Sinclair talked to her all the time.
"Mine now," he said, handing her a very small box.
She unpacked it carefully to find a key. She looked up at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised.
"This is the key to here," Sinclair explained. "All this coming and going... it's a bit redundant, isn't it? And you're here more often than you're in your shared apartment. Stop spending your money to live in this chicken coop and move in with me."
She looked at him, unsure of what to say, and Sinclair felt panic rising in him. Had he wanted to move too fast ?
"Are you serious ?" she finally asked, "I thought you weren't ready," she added.
"I thought so too, but that was before. Contessina, I want to move on. It's time for me to open a new door, to enter a new room, and I want to be in this room with you. I want you to be the one to mark my life for the better."
Contessina squeezed the key between her fingers, nodding briskly, her eyes slightly moist.
"Is that a yes ?"
"That's a yes," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
"This is the most enjoyable Christmas I've ever had," Sinclair said, resting his forehead against Contessina's.
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December 24, 2022
It had been almost a year since Contessina had moved in with Sinclair. They had gotten to know each other better, to live together, to discover and accommodate each other's little flaws. They had had their first fight, their second, their third, but they had never gone to bed angry. That was Contessina's rule: he always had to settle their differences before he went to sleep.
Sinclair's rule was that he should never hide anything from each other. He wanted honesty, even if it hurt. She shouldn't hide anything from him, neither her sorrows, nor her torments, nor what annoyed her about him and above all, above all, if one day she fell in love with someone else, she had to tell him. She should never make fun of him.
Sinclair had insisted so much on this last point that Contessina had timidly asked him if he had been betrayed in the past. Sinclair had hesitated, but in the end, he had told her everything. He owed her that much, after all if he demanded total honesty from her, he had to be so with her in return. Contessina couldn't hold back her grimace of disgust when Sinclair had told her that Natalie had slept with her own brother, in the sheets of her parents' bed.
"When you say her brother... you mean her half-brother, right ? Not a real brother right ? They don't really have blood in common," Contessina had asked.
"No, her real blood brother by blood," Sinclair had coldly answered.
It had made her feel sick. How could this woman she didn't know but never wanted to meet, firstly betray a man like Sinclair who would have served her the moon on a silver platter if she had asked for it, and secondly with her own brother ?
And to top it all off, she had the nerve to get fucked like the female dog she was in Sinclair's parents' bed.
But this revelation had helped Contessina to better understand Sinclair, to better understand some of his behaviours and to definitively tolerate his possessiveness and his slight jealousy that had annoyed her a little at first.
Sinclair felt that he didn't really have any reason to doubt her. He didn't imagine her as the type to sleep with another and she was an only child. But he had wounds that didn't would never truly heal and he couldn't put to sleep that primal instinct that had awakened in him when he realized he was in love with her. That instinct that pushed him to protect what was his, in this case her. He loved her, deeply. She was his second chance and he couldn't bear to have his happiness taken away from him again. She was his redemption.
That Christmas, he was spending it at Sinclair's parents' house. It wasn't the first time he'd taken her there, but it was the first time she'd celebrate Christmas with them. He'd been reassured when his mother had told him one evening on the phone that she adored her. She was kind, polite, well-mannered and much more cultured than "the other one".
Of course, Sinclair's parents didn't know the whole story, he had been too ashamed to tell them that apparently he was such a poor husband that his wife had needed to find comfort in sticking his brother's penis in her sheath, but when he had told them of their divorce, he had been surprised to see the relief of his parents who had finally admitted to him that they had never loved him.
"She wasn't the one for you," his mother had whispered to him, "but she, Contessina... she can hold a conversation with you. She's interested in what interests you even if at first she thought she wouldn't like it. She reads your books, she watches the movies you like... and you do the same... She's the one, my boy."
His mother's approval that night had definitively erased any doubts he had been able to harbour. And as midnight struck and everyone exchanged enthusiastic "Merry Christmas," Sinclair watched Contessina get a kiss on the cheek from her slightly tipsy father and smiled. He had done well three years ago to agree to try to close the door to his past and open a new one a crack. He had done so shyly, but that half-open door that had pushed him to accept William's invitation had introduced him to Contessina. She was in the right room at the right time and his life had changed.
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December 24, 2023
Sinclair and Contessina had flown to Italy five days earlier. He had promised to show her Rome and he had kept his word. He had taken him to all the tourist spots, from the Colosseum to the Vatican, had made him eat pizza at what he thought was the best pizzeria in the city, and had convinced him to eat "the best ice cream in the whole world" despite the bitter winter cold.
On this Christmas Eve, they were sitting at a table in a fancy restaurant that Sinclair had booked for the privacy it offered. In their alcove, away from prying eyes, they shared different varieties of pasta, grilled meats, and tasty vegetables.
"I'm so happy to be here with you," Sinclair told him as he poured him a glass of champagne.
"And I'm so grateful that you introduced me to Italy," she said, her eyes sparkling with joy.
"We'll see many other places, I promise. How about Paris for the spring ? And maybe Florence for the summer ? You wanted to see where Da Vinci had lived, right ?"
"Sinclair ! You spoil me too much," Contessina replied, a slight pinkness on her cheeks.
"Nothing is too much for you," Sinclair replied firmly.
And he meant it. She brought him a happiness, a joy that he thought he would never find again. He had known many people since his childhood. Each one in different rooms, each one who had marked him, hurt him, shaped him, broken him sometimes too. He had had to close many doors, open others, sometimes open windows when the doors refused to open, but he felt an endless gratitude for the door that had opened on this woman in front of him who looked at him as if he were the most wonderful person in the world.
Dessert arrived. A tiramisu, Contessina's favourite dessert, and fresh fruit. But before she could sink her fork into what she called the dessert of the Gods, Sinclair grabbed both of her hands in one of his.
Contessina raised her green eyes to Sinclair's, eyes in which he could read her soul and in his soul, the sincerity of the love she had for him. This was the moment, he was sure of it. The dim light of the restaurant reflected on his curved nose. His heart was beating wildly.
"Contessina, meeting you is the best thing that could have happened to me. I didn't think I'd get a second chance, but you are my second chance. And I just regret not having had the patience to wait longer for you to be my one and only chance."
He let go of her hands to take a small velvet box from the inside pocket of his jacket. Contessina briefly closed her eyes, sensing what was coming.
"Contessina," Sinclair began as he gently opened the box, "will you marry me ?"
The young woman's eyes immediately filled with tears she had been holding back. Before her was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. A sapphire surrounded by small diamonds set in a gold band.
"Contessina ?" Sinclair asked with emotion as she was slow to answer.
"Oh, Sinclair ! Yes ! Yes! A thousand times yes !"
Sinclair took her left hand and placed the ring on her ring finger, his own eyes misting with tears.
"I promise to be the best of husbands," Sinclair said as he kissed each of her fingers.
"And I promise to be the best of wives, Sinclair."
And seven months later, in a small, discreet church in Paddington, Sinclair and Contessina said yes to each other for better or for worse, even if Sinclair had no doubt that he would only get the best since he had already had the worst.
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December 24, 2024
In his arms, Contessina had fallen asleep, still exhausted from the last few frightening days she had spent. Sinclair did not blame her, he knew that although she hid her weaknesses, and although he didn't doubt her strength, she still had to heal. Her body had been tested, more than it should have been. She had lost a lot of blood, but fortunately, the doctors had managed to stabilize her and had assured Sinclair that she would recover provided she stayed warm, hydrated and fed properly to regain her strength, and above all, had plenty of rest.
It had been their little secret for a long time. As long as she could hide it. On the wedding day, no one had noticed anything except Sinclair who could discern the subtle changes in the body of the woman he loved most in the world. He and apparently the father of his brand new wife, but he couldn't blame the old man for knowing his daughter so well.
When she had announced to him one evening in April that he was going to be a father, Sinclair, for the first time, had been at a loss for words, which had made the young woman burst out laughing.
"You fill me with joy," he had finally said, taking her in his arms and squeezing her with all his strength as if he was afraid she might disappear.
The pregnancy had not been easy. Contessina had nothing of the fulfilled mother-to-be. She threw up all the time, her back, legs and feet hurt all day long and at six months pregnant, she had to stop working when her placenta had slightly detached, causing bleeding that had nearly made Sinclair's heart stop.
But there had also been good times. The baby's first kicks as Sinclair, his head resting on his wife's belly, read him a Dickens story. His moments when his wife's eyes shone with an indefinable sparkle that made her even more radiant or how she had shone by his side, head held high despite her discomfort, during an important evening at Sinclair's work celebrating his brand new promotion.
There had also been the decorating of the baby's room, their little quarrel over whether or not he would know the sex of the baby - Sinclair absolutely wanted to have the surprise, and he had won - and all the evenings when, despite his own fatigue, Sinclair had patiently massaged his feet.
The baby had finally arrived two weeks early. Contessina had woken up in the middle of the night and Sinclair had woken up with a start when she had shaken him lightly.
"I think the baby is coming," she had said with tears in her eyes.
Without waiting, Sinclair had helped him put on a pair of jogging pants and one of his own t-shirts, had put him in the car where the maternity bag had already been in the trunk for over a month and had driven him to the hospital. And indeed, their little treasure, eager to celebrate Christmas with his parents, hadrents, were ready to show themselves. The delivery had been long, tiring, stressful, especially when she had started to lose so much blood that the doctors had had to take her to the operating room to perform an emergency cesarean, leaving Sinclair alone in a sanitized hallway that stank of disinfectant and where a rickety Christmas tree had been placed.
He had been afraid that night, afraid of losing his wife and child, of losing his child, or worse still of losing his wife. But the two of them had held on, two true warriors who had won this battle against life and death, who had broken down the door of survival.
And it was with joy that Sinclair had opened the door of their house to this new little being that he had loved at first sight. His flesh and blood. His son.
"Sinclair ?"
Sinclair came back to reality when he heard the voice of Contessina who had just woken up.
"Are you okay, my love ?" he asked her, smoothing a strand of her brown hair behind her ear while she was rubbed her eyes in a very cute way that reminded Sinclair their young baby.
She moaned slightly before sitting up with Sinclair's help, who, without her having to say it, guessed the pain she was still feeling.
"I think I could use a hot chocolate," she whispered, her voice still hoarse with sleep.
Sinclair immediately complied as she sat comfortably on the couch, noticing that Sinclair had just started the first episode of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Her body was still aching. She knew she had to be patient. She had had a lucky escape in that operating room, that room where they had put her into an artificial sleep to get her baby out of her body, to save their lives.
When she woke up, in her hospital room, the two men of her life were there: her father and her husband. Finally, the three men of her life, since in her grandfather's arms was her son.
She would never forget the emotion she felt when Sinclair took the baby back to place him in his arms.
"I waited for you for the name," he had told her while kissing her on the forehead.
She briefly closed her eyes while smiling softly at her memories when Sinclair's voice brought her back to reality.
"My lady's hot chocolate. And mine," he said while placing two steaming cups, full of marshmallows, on the coffee table.
A small whimper was then heard right next to them, in the small crib that was in the living room.
"I'll get him," Sinclair said while standing up.
He came back with their little boy in his arms and sat next to Contessina who rested her head against his shoulder, as well as a protective hand on her son's stomach, which was still sensitive because he's difficult start in life. But with a loving mother and a strong and caring dad, he will be very soon becoming stronger.
"He's beautiful," Sinclair said, looking at him with the same wonder she had when the nurse had come to put him in her arms.
"He looks just like you," Contessina said, kissing Sinclair's cheek.
"Thank you," Sinclair said, his hazel eyes looking into his wife's.
"For telling you that our son looked like you ?"
"No, for coming into my life. For giving me hope in love again. For agreeing to marry me, for never telling me to go away when I talk too much, for genuinely caring about me, for always supporting me and him. Thank you for giving me our child. For giving me a family."
Contessina snuggled closer to him, moved.
"Thank you, Sinclair, for noticing me and for never thinking that I wasn't good enough to be in your life. In your world."
Sinclair rested his chin against the top of Contessina's skull without ever taking his eyes off their child.
Thomas Sinclair Bryant.
His son. His heir. The fruit of his love with the true woman of his life, the one with whom he would grow old and face the trials of illness, of old age, but not for a long time.
Before being old and sick, they still had many things to experience together with their little boy. Many doors to close, many doors to open, rooms to explore. And Sinclair, overwhelmed by happiness, made a promise to himself to help his son get out of the rooms where the people who will be there will have bad intentions, to help him choose his path carefully, but above all, he would teach him that no matter the difficulties of life, the trials and sufferings, he should always have the courage to get up and open a new door.
Chapter 6: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 6 - WRAPPED TIGHTLY
Summary:
Phil, grumpy and alone, could find some hope wrapping tightly around his heart.
Chapter Text
The warm festive atmosphere that was looming on the horizon had not really reached Phil. His son, now married and settled in the City where they were competing brilliantly, would not be spending the holidays with him this year. His wife was expecting their first child and she was pregnant up to her eyes.
Of course, he could have gone to see them for Christmas, he had been invited, but he felt that it had been more out of politeness than anything else. He did not get on very well with his daughter-in-law's parents, upper-class people who always took a malicious pleasure in reminding him that he was only a small hairdresser with a modest salon in a small town with an unpronounceable name and that it was not thanks to him that his son had been able to open his salon in London.
Christina Robertson, the daughter of his worst enemy, was worth a thousand times more than these people, but Brian had made the mistake of letting her go and now he was living like a posh man, spending the money of his parents-in-law.
Therefore, this year, the only plan Phil had was spending December in the warm of his house with his favourite TV program. Of course, that was without counting on Sandra who refused to see him brood. According to her, she was the only one who had the right to be unhappy because a year earlier, Shelley had lost her fight against cancer and Phil and she had been divorced long enough for him to be less sad than she was.
In her great kindness, Sandra had allowed him to be sad, but not for too long, not as much as she was. And of course, Phil had mourned Shelley. For a long time. He had had to mourn his first love, but also the mother of his only son and the whole life he had imagined with her. A little after her death, Brian had left and he had found himself all alone with his hair salon and his loyal customers. And for the first time, it was no longer enough.
Phil found himself wishing for a companion in his life, an equal to talk to at the end of his days. Someone to wrap tightly in his arms.
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"What did you do ?!" Phil's baritone voice echoed in the small salon that wasn't yet open.
"Oh, don't be a party pooper, Phil ! It'll take your mind off things," Sandra said, sitting nonchalantly on a worn chair in the hair salon while Phil put away freshly ironed towels.
She wore a bright blue bonnet with a ridiculous white pompom.
"I didn't ask you anything !" Phil grunted, pushing her off the chair to dust her off.
"With pleasure," Sandra replied, blowing her a kiss with her hand.
"I prefer to drink my shampoo," Phil said calmly, putting away his combs.
All these gestures were mechanical. A simplicity in the repetition that calmed his tormented mind. He stepped around Sandra who had come to stand in front of him to turn up the heat a little. The biting December cold seemed to be freezing his entire house today. But the anger he was starting to harbour against Sandra was about to melt the frost outside very quickly.
"It's too late, Phil. I've already put your name down for the Christmas market. It'll be great, you'll see," insisted Sandra, whose determination was matched only by Phil's stubbornness.
"Sandra..."
"You'll meet people, you'll offer hair treatments and you'll cut a few ends, nothing too complicated. You'll be able to drink mulled wine and you can't ignore the holidays for another year," she said with an enthusiasm that didn't contaminate Phil at all.
"I'm not ignoring them, I'm enjoying their absence," he replied, plugging in his hairdryer.
"Oh ! Come on Phil, if you don't go willingly, I'll drag you there by force !"
"I'd like to see that," Phil replied without even looking at her.
He didn't have to wait long to see himself at a stall at the Keighley Christmas Market offering quick treatments to repair the damaged ends of young girls who would do well to put away their curling irons and straighteners if they didn't want to end up bald before they were 30. Sandra had given him a severe nudge when he'd told one of them, who had burst into tears - the girl was only fifteen - and now he was content to just apply the treatments in silence.
His stall was minimalistic, no lights, no little artificial tree. Just a few samples, the new ergonomic brushes his son had sent him the month before and a sign that said "Free haircut... if you dare to sit down". Needless to say, apart from the regulars, few people dared to put themselves in the hands of a man who seemed to want to be anywhere else rather than here.
He was busy trimming the ends of one of his regular customers, an old lady who always tipped him generously, wondering why he had agreed. He had done it reluctantly, of course, Sandra had worn him down. Luckily, the weather was rather mild and the outdoor heaters kept the slight winter chill from freezing his fingers. He also had to admit that the stalls lit up with fairy lights and the big Christmas tree the town had put up were rather nice. But the Christmas carols that were playing on repeat... he would have burst his eardrums with his pair of scissors to stop hearing them.
As his client dug into his purse to give him a note, Phil looked up at the sky, showing that a blanket of frost would settle over the town in the early hours. That didn't stop the people of Keighley from coming out in droves to see the town's Christmas market, which was a bit beyond Phil.
"I'll get some mulled wine, would you like anything ?" Sandra asked him.
Phil shook his head thoughtfully. Sandra had insisted that he come to get him out of his solitude and yet he felt more alone than ever. He had always thought that loneliness was like an old friend and he had never paid attention to it, but for the first time, this loneliness bothered him. She was not an old friend, she was more like an old blanket wrapped tightly around him.
He felt it even more here, in this Christmas market that was overflowing with life, laughter, family and lovers. The air smelled of wood fire, spices and the little spruce trees that an old man who often came to have his sideburns cut at Phil's sold.
"Do you want to taste it ?" asked Sandra who had just returned with a slice of lemon cake.
"No. I'm going to take a walk. Keep the shop."
Sandra rolled her eyes but he didn't see her. He walked through the stalls without really looking at them.
That's when he saw her. She was shorter than him, her hair tied in a messy bun, big green eyes that looked a little sad. She had a small, unassuming booth filled with knitted scarves and blankets. She wasn’t doing anything to attract attention. She just stood there, wrapped in a purple faux fur coat, and for some reason Phil found himself drawn to her. Maybe it was the peaceful calm she exuded, or the almost motherly way she was readjusting a blanket on the rack that someone had undone before balling it up and turning away.
He walked over and stroked a soft white scarf.
“Your scarves look… useful,” Phil said, meeting his gaze.
She smiled at him, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.
“And pretty, I hope,” she said softly.
“Probably, yes. Do you knit all of these yourself ?” he asked, gesturing to the various scarves, hats, and blankets.
"Yes. It's a kind of therapy. And you, are you really here to cut hair or to avoid being alone ?"
Phil smiled discreetly. She was smart.
"A bit of both."
He ended up buying a blanket in a pretty forest green under the pretext of giving it to Sandra for Christmas.
"I'm..."
"Phil Allen. I know who you are, you run the hair salon on the corner. My father was a customer of yours," she cut him off gently.
"Yes," Phil wondered, the light of a near stall flickering on his face, making the shadow of is hooked nose reflecting on his cheek .
He didn't claim to have the best memory in the world, but Keighley wasn't very tall and he didn't remember that face that was so unique.
"Your father is ?"
"Alexander Morton."
Phil frowned for a moment before snapping his fingers.
"Yes, Alex ! You must be Elena, he's always talking about you. How's he doing ? I haven't seen him in a while."
"He had a heart attack. That's why I came back, so I wouldn't leave him alone."
"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Phil said, a little embarrassed.
"He's always been very discreet. But he's doing much better. He just has to avoid drafts. He had bronchitis last month. He's at home, wrapped tightly in one of my blankets," she said with a small smile.
Phil nodded, a little relieved in spite of himself. Alexander was one of his favourite customers. He didn't talk for nothing, unless someone started him on the subject of his beloved daughter, then he couldn't be stopped, always left a good tip and when he came to get his hair done after New Year's, he always brought a delicious bottle of wine. Well, maybe not this year.
"You've only just moved to Keighley then?"
Phil caught himself by the sound of her voice asking the question. It wasn't in his nature to pry into things that didn't concern him.
"Yes. I used to live in London."
"My son moved to London not long ago. It must be strange to be here."
"Yes. But sometimes simplicity is good," she replied cryptically.
Phil wanted to continue their conversation, but a customer came in. He nodded politely to her, then turned back and walked at his own stand, but suddenly his head was no longer filled with dark thoughts of loneliness. No, it was Elena who had just wrapped his mind tightly for the rest of the evening.
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A week later, Phil was completely immune to the hustle and bustle that shook most people as Christmas approached. In two weeks, families would gather to share a meal and open presents. Even Sandra would be reunited with her family. She had offered Phil a ride but he had declined. That afternoon, the sky was dark. Heavy clouds announced imminent rain and three customers had failed to show up without even bothering to cancel. Phil vowed to charge them double the price the next time they came.
He was busy sweeping when the deep voice of a man on the street was heard. He didn't understand what he was saying, but he sounded rather aggressive.
“Already drunk at this time of day,” he grumbled as he dunked his combs in a basin of water and disinfectant.
Suddenly, the bell above the front door rang sharply as a woman rushed into the living room, hastily shutting the door. Phil was about to tell her that the living room was closed when he recognized her. Elena, her cheeks red from the cold, stood with her back against the door.
“I’m sorry… I… I… I never do this… But… Can I stay here for a while ?” she almost stuttered.
Phil set down the combs he was holding in his hands, his brow furrowed.
“Sure. Is everything okay ?”
Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure he’d heard a drunk man. As if to confirm her suspicions, Elena glanced furtively behind her, almost frightened.
"I... I was followed. By a man. He... He told me... Well, it doesn't matter."
"What did he say ?" Phil asked firmly in his deep voice.
"He..." she hesitated for a moment, blushing a little more, "He told me 'you'll get fucked' and then he added 'by me' and then he followed me and... I panicked and went into the first open place I saw..."
"You did the right thing," Phil cut her off.
He crossed the room in just a few strides and locked the door before lowering the blinds.
"You're safe here. Sit down."
Elena took a seat on a chair near the sinks under Phil's watchful gaze. Her hands were shaking slightly and she looked a little ashamed.
"My reaction is a bit silly. It's not like this kind of thing never happens in London," she said, nervously fiddling with a strand of her hair.
"It's not ridiculous. This kind of behaviour is just disgusting, no matter if we're in London or a small town like ours."
Without asking her anything, he went to make some tea. It was the first time he had been faced with a situation like this and he wasn't sure what to do to reassure her, but he was pretty sure that a cup of tea would help calm her down a bit.
"Thank you," she murmured as he handed her a cup.
She clasped her hands around it to warm them.
"Where did he follow you from ?" he asked, sitting down across from her.
"From the Square. I was just going out to get some air. He's not from around here, at least I don't think so."
Phil nodded as he pulled the blinds back slightly to see if anyone was outside the living room.
"I'm sorry this happened to you. This kind of thing doesn't normally happen in a small town like ours. Everyone knows everyone here."
Elena felt her heartbeat calm down here, with Phil's reassuring presence. His strong stature, his charismatic aura that filled the room alone, and that hooked nose that gave him an almost noble aura of dignity gave her a sense of security she hadn't felt in a long time.
"I should go," Elena said after a moment, "thank you very much, Phil."
Elena stood up, clutching her bag to her, but Phil held up a hand to tell her to stay where she was. He went back to the door, making sure the street was still as empty as before.
"I'll walk you home."
"There's no need," she protested.
"I insist. You never know."
Elena wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck under the satisfied gaze of Phil who was relieved that she hadn't forced him to beg her to walk her home. He wouldn't have been able to sleep properly all night without being sure that she was safe in her home. He unlocked the door and went out first, making sure that everything was quiet.
They walked side by side without saying anything, Phil still on the lookout, making sure that no one would bother Elena again.
"Do you always do this for strangers?" she finally asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
"No, not often. But you're not really a stranger. You're the daughter of one of my best clients."
Elena smiled discreetly, but didn't answer. Arriving in front of the white and blue fence of the house she shared with her father, she warmly thanked Phil.
"Thank you. Really. You really reassured me," she said with sincere gratitude.
Phil just nodded before wishing her a good evening and above all to be careful in the future.
He waited for her to come inside the house to go home, a strange warmth in the hollow of his chest. It had been a long time since he had felt like this. Since Shelley. Years ago, when he was only nineteen.
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He wondered what was hidden behind Elena's sad eyes. He didn't believe it was just his father's heart attack that had driven him back to hide in a town like Keighley. And by discreetly asking one of his clients who was nicknamed "The Keighley Gazette" to find out absolutely everything that was going on, Alex was doing much better. On the other hand, she knew absolutely nothing about Elena except that she had moved in with her father eight months earlier. She was apparently a discreet woman, so discreet that few people had noticed her before the Christmas market
"Invite her. Tonight. You've made gallons of soup, share it with her."
Phil bit the inside of his cheek, wondering what had possessed him to talk about Elena to Sandra.
"She came to my salon once."
He raised his head, almost dropping the pot of hair dye he was holding in his hands. His client, Mrs. Dashwood, was half-deaf, so he could speak without fear that rumours would start running the streets about him and this mysterious young woman.
"Get a haircut?"
"No, order some fried chicken," Sandra replied, rolling her eyes. "She asked me to cut her ends and if I did some natural dyes, if you must know."
He shrugged. That didn't tell him much about her.
"She's nice, but not very talkative. Like you. I'm not surprised you're attracted to her."
"She doesn't attract me."
"Yeah, well, you took the time to tell me about her, you kind of like her."
He mumbled something under his breath that made Sandra gloat. It was high time Phil moved on and she had a good feeling about this Elena.
"And you walked her home. You could have just called the police."
"I did what I thought was best," Phil grumbled.
Sandra crossed her arms and stared at him as if trying to read his mind.
"She seems nice," she finally said.
"And a little lost too," Phil said absently.
"Mysterious, fragile, a soul in distress. She's perfect for you!"
"Sandra!" Phil snapped, giving poor Mrs. Dashwood's head a rather too vigorous stroke of his brush.
"Invite her to share your homemade soup. You've got nothing to lose, she'll say no if not worse. It wouldn't hurt to take an interest in a real woman instead of your hairbrushes. How long have you been pretending to be perfectly happy in your solitude?"
He opened his mouth to reply but she stopped him.
"Too long. If you ask me - and I know you don't - this Elena is a gift wrapped tightly by destiny just for you. It costs you nothing to be a little curious."
He bit his lip, thoughtful. Sandra wasn't entirely wrong. He had felt that pressing need to know she was safe that afternoon as night fell soon and he had felt that slight fragility that emanated from her despite his efforts to hide it. A fragility that resonated with what he himself felt.
He had tried to convince himself that it was only a good deed, but the truth was that his mind always sent him back the image of Elena, her shy smile, her big green eyes, the way she played with his hair when she was nervous.
And Sandra, that annoying Sandra, was also right about him pretending to be happy with his situation for too long. The truth was that he had been content to live for too long, even if before Elena, it had always been enough for him.
Maybe fate had given him a gift that night at the Christmas market by putting this beautiful young woman in his path.
And during the night, the idea of the guest sharing a simple meal with him had taken root. There was just one small problem: he didn't have her phone number.
He couldn't show up at her house, knock on the door and ask her point blank to come eat at his place. Worse still, her father could answer it and he would look very stupid.
"You could say you've lost your touch, Allen," Phil muttered, slamming the book shut, which he wasn't even reading.
He pulled the covers back sharply and got out of bed to make himself some tea, hoping to quiet his mind that was invaded by the thought of seeing Elena again. He liked her. More than he was willing to admit.
As he put the kettle on the stove, his gaze fell on a worn notebook, and suddenly an idea seemed to germinate in his mind.
He was going to drop a note in her mailbox. Nothing too intrusive. Nothing too direct or insistent. She was free to throw it away and never come to eat with him and they could both pretend that the note had never existed. He grabbed a pen and after a moment of hesitation, he wrote in his best handwriting :
"Elena,
I hope you are well.
I didn't know how to ask you, but, if you like the idea, I would like to invite you to dinner at my place this Friday evening at 7 p.m. Nothing formal, just a simple dinner.
Come to the living room and give me your answer or leave me a note in my mailbox. Or just ignore this note and we will pretend that I never wrote anything to you.
If your answer is no, I promise not to insist.
Phil."
And without waiting, he put on pants, his leather jacket, and, under the light of the street lamps, he left for Elena's place. He could have at least waited until morning, but he knew all his courage would have disappeared and he would have thrown away the note slipped into a pretty pale yellow envelope with the young woman's name scrawled on it.
He bit his lip, ready to turn around, but, as if pushed by an external force, he ended up sliding the envelope into the slot of the mailbox before turning away and going back home lost in thought.
"It's your turn now, Elena," he whispered, hoping she wouldn't ignore him.
It had been a long time since he had felt this way about a woman, and even longer since he had felt this mixture of nervousness and relief.
All day the next day, he cast frantic glances through the window of the hair salon. Every time someone passed by on the sidewalk, he looked up from his work, just in case it was her.
But she didn't come. He shrugged, shaking his head as he mentally called himself a moron.
"As if a woman as charming as her could be interested in a grumpy old man like you," he grumbled as he folded up some towels.
That's when the bell rang. He had forgotten to lock the door.
"We're closed," he said curtly without looking up.
"I can always write my answer and drop it in your mailbox," a soft voice said.
Phil looked up a little too quickly, cracking his neck in spite of himself.
"Elena," he said surprised.
There she was, in front of him, wrapped in a wool cardigan that was a little too light for the cold weather and the wind that was rustling the trees.
"I'd love to."
"What ?" Phil asked stupidly, raising an eyebrow.
"Dinner with you, Friday night. I'd love to."
For the first time in a long time, Phil smiled. A big smile that brought him an unexpected warmth. It was as if all of a sudden, his loneliness melted away like snow in the sun and an almost suffocating joy wrapped tightly around him.
Chapter 7: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 7 - QUIET WISHING [A2]
Summary:
During a night on December, Colonel Brandon meets a young woman who captivates him instantly. He then realises that what he had mistaken for love when he met Marianne had never truly been love.
Notes:
This is part II of DECEMBER MOON
Chapter Text
Colonel Brandon's heart was beating to a new rhythm. The rhythm of happiness at having found someone who seemed genuinely interested in him and not in his fortune, his title or his domain. You made him smile. Better yet, you made him happy.
He still remembered your father's face when he had asked him for permission to court you. The poor man had not believed it, you whose sharp mind had scared away more than one man, here was one of the richest and most respected men in the county interested in you and did not seem put off by your intelligence which sometimes bordered on insolence. But he also feared that Brandon wanted to take advantage of you.
"My daughter... She is not like the ladies you usually frequent in the salons, Colonel," your father had told him.
"Exactly, I don't want a lady who just smiles and sits idle while spending my money," Christopher had replied in his deep voice.
"She... [Y/N] is already 28 years old and has never been... courted or proposed to... that should... worry you," your father had suggested.
Christopher had found your father's concern cute. He had recognized in him a man worried about your well-being. He had reassured him of his intentions and your father who could not miss your annoyed and pleading look had said yes.
But at already 38 years old, Christopher did not want to spend months and months playing the game of convenience. He wanted to marry you quickly.
And you too, for your part, did not want to wait any longer to leave your father's home for the safety of a husband. But the happiness you had of being courted and loved by a man like him was tainted by the fear you had that he might one day know.
"[Y/N], is everything okay ?" Brandon asked you, looking genuinely worried.
You jumped slightly before smiling at him, your mind returning to the inside of the carriage that was gently shaking you on the bumpy road.
"Yes, very well, I... it's just that this is the first time I'm going to go to the Jennings and Mrs. Jennings... she's invited me often but I didn't feel like I belonged there..."
That wasn't really all that was bothering you but you didn't want to tell him the truth. If Christopher didn't believe you, he didn't show it, too busy admiring you in the wool coat he'd given you before you left, a coat that fit you and would keep you warm all winter.
The Jennings welcomed you warmly. He already knew that Christopher was courting you and although Mrs. Jennings' insinuations had made you uncomfortable at times, the day had been pleasant. But you didn't feel entirely at home in this world. You didn't know all the rules of etiquette and you were always a little slouched, a position reinforced by your feelings of inadequacy.
"You'll learn," Christopher said kindly when you confided your doubts, "I'll help you and if you wish, I can have a governess come and see you every day. But [Y/N], I'm not asking you for anything, you know that, right ?"
You nodded gently, grateful for what he was willing to do for you, to help you integrate into his world.
That night, lying in your bed with Henry by your side, covered with several blankets to counter the cold wind that was seeping in through the gaps in the windows, a dull anxiety invaded you. What you were doing was wrong. You were going to make this honest and sincere man suffer who didn't deserve it, a man who wouldn't even look at you anymore if he knew the truth, if he knew who you really were.
12 years ago
You were sixteen years old and you were considered one of the most beautiful girls in your village. Your long brown hair that you rarely bothered to style like a real lady, your soft and delicate face, your big green eyes, your natural kindness and your intelligence made you a rather singular person. You had few friends and the boys didn't really look at you, intimidated that you could hold a real conversation.
But you didn't care, you were still so innocent about things of love. You had a simple life with your father, a man who gave you more freedom than any other girl in your village could have dreamed of having.
No one looked at you except him. A lord's son, no less than that who had noticed you one day at the spring festival that was organized every year thanks to the kindness of his father. This year the old lord had not been able to come and it was him who had come. Tall, elegant, dark-haired with a nonchalant attitude, he had immediately caught your eye. He didn't look like anyone you knew. Nobody. And you didn't look like any of the ladies he rubbed shoulders with either. Why he had noticed you among all the others, you don't know and you would never understand, but it had been the case.
He had spoken to you to talk about the weather. He was charming, disarming too. He wasn't flattering and his sincerity had made you waver, giving rise to a mixture of excitement and nervousness.
That evening, when you returned home, you couldn't forget the smile that lit up his face, but you knew that you couldn't expect anything from this meeting. You were just grateful that he had been kind enough to speak to you, to treat you as an equal.
Except that you had seen her again. Once. Twice. Three times. And he had ended up admitting to you that if he came back to the village so often, it was to see you. Each time, he had a little gift for you: a drug, a silver brooch, a handkerchief embroidered with his initials, gifts that you kept preciously in a wooden box hidden under your bed. Not to mention the dozens and dozens of letters that you exchanged, hiding them in the gap of a stone wall on the edge of the village that secretly kept your correspondence while the other went to get the letter addressed to him. The drawer of your dresser was filled with the languorous words that he wrote to you every week.
"We could leave," he had told you one day.
"Where would we go ?"
"Anywhere. We'll get married in Scotland and then... We could go to America. Or this new land that he calls Australia. They say that there everything is big and everything is wild. We would be free to be what we want."
He kept telling you that your difference in status, in rank, was of no importance and he insisted a little more each time that you leave. And soon, he had infected you with his dreams of escape, of distant landscapes and of a future where conventions, social statuses would not exist.
Back to the present
"[Y/N], will you come with me to the Christmas party that the Jennings are organizing the night before ?"
Christopher was standing in your living room, his hands nervously playing with his hat while your father prepared tea in the next room, Henry at his side hoping to see him drop a biscuit.
"I... I'm not sure I have my place at such an evening," you answered, your cheeks blushing slightly.
You knew that the Jennings would receive prestigious guests, accustomed to the codes of this kind of evening.
"I will stay by your side the whole time," Christopher promised.
You looked up as your father came back into the room, nodding vigorously behind Christopher to urge you to say yes.
"Very well," you murmured.
The Colonel smiled, a shy smile on his lips, the same one that always made you melt.
"If you agree, Mr. [Y/S], I could take [Y/N] into town to buy her a dress for this evening."
"There's no need..." you began but your father almost immediately interrupted you to give his consent.
As you walked side by side, you could feel the eyes of the evil tongues who whispered about the fact that you didn't have a chaperone. Christopher didn't care. After all, you were practically his fiancé and at your ages, there were many other things to worry about. Besides, he was a man of honour, he would never have touched you before making you his wife.
But those whispers tightened your throat, taking you back years.
11 years ago
After a year of dreaming and hoping, you had abruptly learned the truth from a maid at the manor where the man you loved lived. He was engaged. Engaged to a woman of his rank.
"Is it true then ?" you had asked him when you had seen each other in your secret place, far from the eyes of the village.
"[Y/N], I... I am from an important family. I must honour my name."
"You promised me! You told me that our difference in status meant nothing, that we would run away."
"I shouldn't have let you believe that, it was a mistake."
"William," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes.
"[Y/N], it was a dream. A beautiful dream, but you have to wake up now."
And he continued like this, in a cold voice, pretending that everything you had experienced, shared didn't count, was nothing.
"I'm leaving the region at the end of the month. I'm going to Wales. The wedding will take place there and we will settle in one of my father's properties. I'm sorry [Y/N], but you are intelligent, you must have suspected that all this was only ephemeral."
He stroked a lock of your hair, then he turned away and left without a backward glance, leaving you alone with your sorrow, your broken heart, your body in pain.
You fell to your knees, crying silently. You stayed there for a long time, hours. It was almost dark when you finally returned home. You felt empty, betrayed, in another world, so much so that you hadn't even heard your father's remonstrances.
The next day, you burned everything: the letters, the gifts, you wanted to erase him entirely from your existence. But it was too late. He had already left an indelible mark on you.
Back to the present
A lump in your throat, you listened to Christopher talk to you about the future. Children he hoped to have with you.
You had to tell him. He had to know what you had done 16 years ago. You couldn't let him believe that you were a young virgin saved for her husband. You had to tell him everything. But once again, you were too cowardly to do it, promising yourself once again that tomorrow, tomorrow you would talk to him.
But you didn't, the days passed, you kept your secret, your regrets, your remorse and your guilt with you. But on this December 23rd, Christopher did something you didn't expect.
He came to your house without you expecting it. Your father was busy at the Hawthorne's. He was preparing the tables and the decorations for their Christmas reception. However, you didn't hesitate to let Colonel Brandon come home. You knew you had nothing to fear with him, and besides, your four-legged companion would protect you if necessary.
Christopher stood in front of you, a little nervous. He felt a certain resistance in you, but he hoped that what he was going to ask you would break down your last defences and that you would teach him to understand your silences and your sometimes shifty glances.
"[Y/N], I wanted to ask you something," he began, pacing back and forth.
You were sitting by the fireplace, your heart pounding.
"I love you. With a deep and sincere love."
Your breath caught in your throat as he stopped in front of you, his hands crossed behind his back.
"I don't want to wait any longer. I don't want to waste any more time. I know I want you in my life. You touched my heart when I thought it was no longer possible."
"Colonel Brandon," you said, emotion choking your voice somewhat.
Christopher looked at you surprised. You only called him that in public, never in private, not since he asked you to use his Christian name.
"I..."
You couldn't continue. Sensing your hesitation, he took your hands in his, so strong, so powerful.
"I know I'm not perfect. I'm not the most handsome man in the kingdom, and my past has been filled with pain and regret. But I'm grateful to God for making me endure all of this. Thanks to it, I learned to recognize a true soul."
"Christopher," you began but he stopped you by raising his hand.
"I would like us to go to the Jennings' party tomorrow night as your fiancé and for you to allow me to tell my best friend that you have agreed to become my wife."
You turned pale. As if he could sense the tension emanating from your entire being, Henry came to rest his head against your leg. You absently took him on your lap, your eyes wide.
You looked up to see the hope in Christopher's, and you felt sick. You put Henry back on the ground and stood up abruptly to walk away.
"[Y/N]," Christopher said softly.
He didn't understand. What were you doing ? You weren't like Marianne, you couldn't be. He had thought he saw in you what he had been looking for for so long, and here you were about to break his heart, like all the others.
"I can't," you whispered.
His words were like a slap in the air. Brandon took a step back, hurt.
"Why ?" he asked firmly, "was I just a game to you ?"
"No ! Never ! I... Christopher... I..."
Tears welled up in your eyes and you bit your bottom lip until it bled.
"[Y/N], explain yourself. I want to know," he commanded.
"I'm not what you think I am. You deserve a much better woman than me who is worthy of walking by your side."
"[Y/N], I don't expect you to be perfect. But I want you to be honest."
"Honest... I wish I was, but I'm afraid you'll never look at me again."
"[Y/N], what do you mean ?"
Christopher felt worry rising in him. What could you possibly be hiding ?
"I... you'll probably despise me after this, but please, don't tell anyone, ever. I'm telling you because I owe it to you. What I did was wrong. I shouldn't have given you false hope, but please, Colonel Brandon... Christopher... keep my secret, I beg you."
You were crying for real now. Christopher helped you sit up and handed you a glass of water.
"Despising you ? Never. What could you have done that was so bad ?"
His tone was soft, his gaze worried. You hesitated for a split second, then spilled the beans.
"There... many years ago, when I was only 16 years old, I let myself be seduced by a young lord. He... he was insidiously sweet and he made me a thousand and one promises. He promised me a bright future, dreams that I would never have dared to imagine, but...
11 years ago
"My dear, you haven't stopped throwing up for three days. We should really call the doctor," your father had told you tenderly.
"It's not necessary, Dad. We don't have much money and I'll get better soon, there's an epidemic in the village. I probably caught it when I went to sell our apples to Mr. DeGardener."
Your father had nodded, even if he remained worried about you. But you knew you were lying. You weren't sick. It was worse than that.
Two months ago, William had taken you to his house in secret. A magnificent home like you had never seen before. His parents were away, traveling to Scotland with three-quarters of the servants. He had let you in discreetly, under the noses of the few servants still present.
He had taken you to his room, kissed you on the cheek, forehead, nose, mouth. Up until then, nothing more than what you had already done. He then went down your neck and one of his fingers had gently lowered the collar of your dress to place a kiss on the top of your breasts. Out of breath, you had let him do it.
He slid his other hand along your leg, raising your dress up your thigh to place his hand under your drawers, and there again, you had not pushed him away. You knew what was going to happen, you were not as naive as you seemed... well, at least you liked to think so.
Several times, he had asked you if you were sure, if you wanted him to stop. When he had unbuttoned your dress, when he had slid it down your body, when he had removed your wool socks, your undershirt and one last time, before his hands slid your drawers down your legs
And after you had whispered "yes" to him one last time, he had laid you down on his bed and had taken your purity, your innocence, your entire body.
You obviously couldn't tell your father this, but there was one person you could confide in. You knew she wouldn't judge you and she would never tell him again.
You had waited until the next morning, for your father to leave for work to leave him a note and you had left for your grandmother's house. She lived in a modest house a little outside the village, nestled at the end of a path lined with old twisted trees that filtered the autumn light, making their foliage almost unreal.
With bruised feet and a fragile mind, you had timidly knocked on the door, your shoulders weighed down by an emotional fatigue that devoured you more than anything else. Your grandmother had come to open the door. When she saw you, her face had lit up with a toothless smile. Her white hair was tied up in a strict bun and her face, marked by the years, was marked by a little more worry when she saw you with red eyes and a defeated expression.
"Grandma, I didn't know where to go," you had said, bursting into tears.
She had immediately pulled you into her arms. You still remembered her scent of lavender and wood and for the first time since William had abandoned you, you felt safe.
She had led you to the fire and while she made tea, you had unpacked everything. Absolutely everything, while your grandmother had sat in her old, worn armchair, a blanket around her shoulders, listening to you without saying a word.
"My dear," your grandmother had finally said at the end of your story.
"I loved him, Grandma. And I believed him when he said he would marry me," you had said in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.
"I know, my dear. But you are not the first young girl to be taken in by the sweet promises of a young man in search of pleasure."
"He left me like I was nothing. Like we had nothing in common and all his promises were nothing but wind," you said, crying even harder.
"You're no less precious, [Y/N]. No one needs to know what happened, it's yours," your grandmother had said wisely.
"Except... Oh, Grandma ! I'm expecting his child !"
Your tears had redoubled, almost choking you as your throat was so tight.
"There is no forgiveness for girls like me. I'm lost and when the whole village finds out, my father's name will be sullied."
The old woman had immediately stood up to hug you.
"No one needs to know. You made a mistake, that's true, but that doesn't define you. Neither you nor your worth. It's what you do from now on that matters," she had said firmly.
"What am I going to do, Grandma ?"
The old woman thought silently for a moment, her fingers clenched on the armrest of the chair you were sitting in.
"I... I'm going to go see your father..."
"NO !" you cried.
She silenced you with a look, the same kind of look she used to make you understand, when you were a child, that you were getting a little too insolent.
"I'm going to tell him that I'm not doing very well and that I want to go on a pilgrimage to talk to God. He'll tell me that I'm too old and I'll tell him that's why I want you to come with me, to watch over me."
"Where shall we go, Grandma ?"
"I know a place where we can help you."
"Grandma, you're not judging me, are you ?" you asked, consumed by guilt.
She took your hand in hers and squeezed it with all her strength.
"My poor little darling. You carry a weight that is far too heavy for a young girl, but you are not the first young woman to let a man abuse you. Listen to me carefully, this secret will be ours and you must never, ever let it define you or dictate the rest of your life, understood ?"
You didn't answer and she squeezed your hands a little tighter.
"Understood ?" she asked again with more force.
"Yes," you breathed.
"Good. I'm going to take you to a small, remote convent run by sisters who are rather... let's say more caring than others. They'll give you a choice. Either stay there until you're delivered and they'll then take care of your child, entrust him to a good family who can't have one or..."
You saw her hesitate and you raised a questioning look.
"Or what, grandmother ?"
"Or some of them know... they know how to make angels."
Your breath hitched. You knew what she meant.
"It will be your decision, [Y/N], but know that no matter what you decide, you will do what you believe is right and I, I will always love you just as much."
She hugged you again, whispering to you that anyone who dared to judge you would know nothing of the weight of the human heart. And a week later, you found yourself in this convent, surrounded by sisters who were not as caring as promised, who had made disparaging remarks to you under the disapproving gaze of your grandmother, but despite the sermons, one of them had created an angel and you had returned home as you had left, at least in appearance. But the specter of your guilt, you knew, would never leave you.
Back to the present
"It was supposed to be the best solution, an end, but it was only a beginning. I woke up after days of fever, weakened, my body bruised and my heart... my heart completely empty," you said without even trying to hold back your tears.
Christopher looked at you, his features serious but his eyes not devoid of compassion. He had listened to you from start to finish without interrupting you.
"That day, I lost my faith and my dignity. You see, Christopher, I am not what you think. I am not pure. I am just a slut who... who made an angel out of the child she was expecting. I am not worthy of you, of your love."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by your sobs. Christopher crossed the distance between you and took one of your hands in his. You tried to pull it away, but he stopped you.
"Please, Colonel, don't tell anyone. My father never knew, nor did anyone in our village. This secret belonged only to my grandmother and me. Today, my grandmother is no longer of this world, I am the only one carrying this secret. Please, please, keep it to yourself, I only revealed it to you so that you understand why we can't be together," you said in one go.
"[Y/N], look at me" he asked with authority.
You timidly looked up, afraid to see anger in his eyes, but you only saw love.
"I don't despise you. All I see is a young woman who, far too young, had to go through hell. But you came out stronger. And today, you don't have to carry that burden alone anymore," he said in a soft voice.
You shook your head violently, ready to protest, but he stopped you.
"You have survived much pain, much suffering that few could have borne," he continued with unwavering compassion, "and you are still here, standing before me, strong, fighting. It takes a strength that I can only admire, not despise."
"But I am not pure. I am broken," you whispered.
"And me too, life has broken me many times. But I got back up every time, like you. Life is like that. We all carry our burdens, but they shape us. You are not broken [Y/N], you are like a reed. The wind wanted to break you in two, but you only bent for a moment before getting back up."
His words resfelt like a balm on your bruised heart and for the first time in a long time, you saw hope and the possibility of finally letting those old wounds heal.
"I don't deserve you," you said weakly.
He squeezed your hand a little tighter as if to anchor you to reality.
"You deserve all the love in the world. And I love you. I love you as you are, for who you are. No matter who you were, what you've done. And if you're ready to accept me with my own demons, then I promise to love you, to protect you and together we will build a future far from the ghosts that haunt us. A future where there will be only hope, happiness and you can always lean on me."
You probed him as if to make sure he wasn't playing you, but you saw only sincerity and love on his features.
"[Y/N], do you agree to be my wife ?" Christopher asked softly.
"Yes," you said between sobs.
He held you close, resting his chin on the top of your head. When the front door opened, he quickly stepped back.
"[Y/N], what's going on here ?" your father asked, looking at Christopher suspiciously.
"Dad..."
"I asked [Y/N] to be my wife and she agreed," Christopher answered for you.
Your father's face might have made you laugh if you weren't still reeling from the confession you had just made.
"Well, that's a surprise," he finally said, sitting down heavily on an armchair.
The Colonel took his leave, not without kissing your forehead tenderly, almost possessively before taking his leave.
The next day, he picked you up for the evening at the Jennings, a ring between his fingers.
"It belonged to my mother," he told you as he slipped it onto your finger. "And now, it's yours. And you're mine," he said as he kissed your temple.
And you left for the Jennings, you wrapped in the wool coat that Christopher had given you, he had the biggest smile you'd ever seen on his face. And in that dark night where the cold bit your cheeks, you let yourself go against him when in the carriage, he wrapped his arms around you to warm you. But it wasn't so much his arms that warmed you as the promise of a future that you had never dared to hope for before. And silently, you thanked the heavens for having heard your quiet wishing.
Chapter 8: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 8 - NEVER-ENDING CONSEQUENCES
Summary:
The Sheriff of Nottingham survived the wound inflicted by Robin Hood's sword. Now, he must go into exile and try to start over. Will he choose the path of vengeance or the path of redemption ?
Chapter Text
He had survived the sword blow of that cursed Robin of Locksley. That stupid Robin Hood. Thanks to one of his faithful who had taken him to a clandestine healer, not without having taken care to replace his body with a corpse resembling him, him, William of Wendenal, the Sheriff of Nottingham once so feared was no more than a shadow. But a living shadow
"You will have to flee," the healer had told him, "if anyone knows that you are alive, Robin will come to finish what he started," she had added with a hint of admiration in her voice.
"Going into exile... what an excellent idea now that I no longer have a castle to maintain," William had whispered ironically.
However, he had not waited to know if the old woman would betray him or not to flee in the middle of the night. His whole body ached and he could feel the fever gnawing at him. He had collapsed on the edge of a village where the local leader had welcomed him without knowing who he was.
There, he had been fed, cared for, even tolerated, but only for a while. His arrogance, his irony and his sardonic phrases had made him hated very quickly. He had quickly sensed that his uneducated people were going to find out about him, he who had passed himself off as a simple lost traveler who had been beaten up for his purse. Without waiting, he had taken to his heels one evening when the whole village was celebrating the wedding of one of their own.
He had galloped for a long time and had had to swallow his pride to beg like those little scoundrels they despised. But he had had no other choice. He had often been beaten by wealthy men and if the threat of tearing their eyes out with a teaspoon had burned his lips, he had held back each time, well aware that it was he who the people would torture if they knew who he really was.
With the advent of Robin of Locksley and the return of King Richard, he was nothing and if he wanted to stay alive, he had to remain unknown.
He had finally ended up in a quiet little coastal village, had kept a low profile and had often made his tongue bleed by biting it to prevent any nastiness from escaping his mouth. He had taken a manual job with a blacksmith who patiently taught him the trade.
The old man had not believed William's story that he had claimed to belong to a long line of blacksmiths himself. He was incapable of doing anything with his ten fingers, with his two hands too soft to have known a single day's work. But the blacksmith wasn't the type to meddle in what didn't concern him. He had seen enough in his life to know that sometimes, people just needed a second chance, far from everything.
But to his great surprise, he also found a form of peace in the work. It was hard, tiring, his hands were often covered in blisters or burns, but his mind was occupied. He mourned less his past life in luxury and comfort, he ruminated less on a revenge that, deep down, he knew would never happen.
He had even surprised himself by imagining a new life here, far from everything, a half-bitter, half-ironic smile when he thought about it. He, the Sheriff of Nottingham found himself living the life of an honest peasant... and he managed to be satisfied with it some evenings.
But that was without counting on fate, determined to make him pay for his past crimes. The never-ending consequences of his evil deeds seemed to want to prevent him from finding his redemption.
One afternoon, a traveler thought he recognized him and quickly, the rumour had spread: he was the ghost of the Sheriff of Nottingham.
"I'm not stupid, my boy. I was lucky enough to learn to read, write and to be taught by a priest when I was a child. I don't believe in ghosts," the old blacksmith had told him one evening when William's situation was critical.
"I..."
The old man had raised his hand to stop him from speaking.
"Don't say anything. If I don't know anything, I won't be able to tell anything. What I do know is that ghosts don't have scars," he had said, pointing to the scar that still crossed William's cheek, "and you have more than you think. That one on your cheek is probably not the most painful, it's the ones here that torture you and make you scream in terror every night," he had continued, placing a hand on his chest.
William had said nothing. For the first time in his life, he was out of control and a single word from this man could get him killed. But to his surprise, he didn't.
"You must run. If word reaches Nottingham that the terrible Sheriff is alive, the king will send a motion to have you hanged."
He had handed him a purse full of money. "It's more than I owe you for your work, but it will help you go far, far away."
"Why do you do that?" William asked curtly, taking the purse.
"Because I too, one day I sought redemption and I wished someone believed in me enough to help me find salvation. But I had to fight alone. I hope you find someone on your way to lighten your load, my boy."
William had answered a weak thank you before pulling his hood over his head and disappearing into the night, like the shadow he had become.
He had walked for days before arriving in this small isolated village. His feet bleeding, his throat dry from thirst and his stomach twisting with hunger, he had prayed, something he had not done for a long time, so that he could finally find the peace he probably did not deserve.
He had been greeted by the village priest, his skeptical eye had not prevented him from giving William something to eat.
"Where do you come from, traveler ?" he had asked him with a strong northern accent.
"I... I was..."
It had not taken long for his manipulative mind to fabricate a credible story. A story where, he, a public writer for the population of a city where he had never set foot there, had lost his entire family in a fire. He had then wandered, looking for death, but life had clung to him and he had ended up here.
The priest as well as the village chief had swallowed his story without batting an eyelid. It must be said that the inhabitants were almost all illiterate and very poorly educated. They believed in all sorts of idiotic superstition and still abandoned their children to the fairies when they thought that the said child had been bewitched. Which inevitably led to the death of the infant in the cold woods that surrounded the village. Everything William needed to find his place. The fact that he was educated, could read, write and count had quickly given him a place of choice among the villagers and a certain power, certainly not very significant compared to that which he had in Nottingham, but a small power all the same. And this small stability in his life so far from the one he had known almost did him good.
He wrote letters, collected taxes, managed disputes with his legendary skill and cunning, and negotiated with traveling merchants the most attractive rates the village had ever seen. This influence, certainly far from the power and authority he had once had, was enough to satisfy him, and the villagers, naive and uneducated, did not distrust him at all.
That day, he had just settled a neighbourhood dispute over the boundaries of the fields to be cultivated when his old wound on his chest came to remind him of itself. Robin Hood's sword blow. It had already been a little over two years, but this old wound still made him suffer from time to time. That day, to his great dismay, the scar seemed to ooze a little.
He knew who he had to go see. Her name was Catherine and she lived on the edge of the forest, alone. An old maid who had lost first her mother, then her father in the last eight years and who was fending for herself, which was quite impressive in itself. She was one of the few inhabitants who could read and write, skills taught to her by her grandfather who had been an altar boy and had almost entered the priesthood before meeting her grandmother, a very beautiful but not very intelligent woman who could neither read nor write. He had taught these two skills that he considered essential to his own children, then to his only granddaughter, his only descendant still alive today.
For the first time, Willian came to knock on the door of his small cabin. Receiving no answer, he pushed the door open, which creaked on its hinges. The interior was dimly lit, a heady scent of dried plants and damp earth catching him in the throat. The roof leaked and the wind seeped in through every crack, but the place was clean. A fire was dying in the fireplace while next to it, several shelves were collapsing under pots, cauldrons and small wooden boxes while a bookcase seemed to have long ago abandoned the heavy task of supporting all the books that were now stacked on top of each other on the only wooden board that still seemed to hold.
"No one ever told you that you don't enter strangers' houses," said a cold voice behind him.
He turned around, ready to retort, but his breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful. Not flamboyantly beautiful, but beautiful in her own way. Her small, mischievous nose and clear eyes softened her tired features.
"I need your services," William said simply, leaning against the doorframe.
"If it's for an amulet, come back tomorrow."
"It's for aa wound," he said, raising an eyebrow, impressed by the young woman's poise.
"Go see the priest, he cures everyone with a little holy water," she sneered.
"I'm afraid I'm not in God's good graces."
She examined him from head to toe and he saw right away that she was not impressed by his imposing build, his dark eyes and this scar which, he was convinced, added a crazy charm to him.
"Wolf bite, scythe blow ? Or maybe you simply tripped over your pride."
He smiled in spite of himself at her quick wit. It had been a long time since someone had shown this much quickness or had disarmed him. It must be said that in another era, he would have had her tongue cut out for being so impertinent.
"More like... an old memory. From my previous life. An outlaw and his cursed sword. A wound near the heart. But don't worry, it didn't make me any more sentimental."
She shook her head, a small smile playing on her pink lips.
"A wound to the heart ? I don't heal the troubled. Too bad."
She stepped around him, ready to place the fresh herbs she held in her hands in a mortar, but he held her arm with more delicacy than he thought he could muster.
"Please," he said, his deep voice softer than he would have expected, "I think the scar is infected."
"Show me that, then."
He approached the fireplace, set his jacket on the wooden chair, and slowly, theatrically untied the top of his shirt.
"I warn you, the show may be heartbreaking. It's not for the faint of heart."
"I've probably seen worse. Don't worry, I'm used to men who act like babies," she retorted, rolling her eyes.
She approached him and let him part the fabric. She carefully examined the reddish scar, bordered by inflammation.
"It's true that it's not very pretty. How long did you wait before you decided to come see me ?"
"I... wanted to give my body time to prove that it was up to the task of healing itself."
"I'm afraid it failed."
She turned to a large wooden chest in which she began to rummage frantically, looking for an ointment. She finally pulled out a small, purplish-colored jar that didn't inspire anything good in William, who still had the good sense to say nothing.
"Stay calm. It's going to sting a little, but it'll do you good. I promise you that in two days, it'll be better," she said, dipping her finger into the thick paste.
She applied the ointment delicately, her thin, cold fingers making him flinch slightly, but despite the slight tingling, he refrained from making a sound, refusing to give the young woman that satisfaction.
"There you go. You should survive. But just to be sure, come back tomorrow, I'll check the state of the scar."
"There's no danger, is there ?"
She raised her head to meet his dark eyes and what she saw unsettled her, even if that glint of uncertainty in the eyes of this man who seemed to exude boundless confidence had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
"None. If you come back."
Without another word, she turned away, crushing the herbs she had placed earlier in her mortar.
William left without a word, but not without telling himself that this woman, this famous healer who lived in seclusion and whose company the villagers only seemed to appreciate when they needed one of her remedies, was not lacking in spice.
And for the first time in years, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After that, William looked for every excuse he could to see her again. He liked her wit, her defiance. She was not afraid of him and she was able to answer his barbs in a heartbeat.
That night, he didn't really intend to bother her, but the flickering light of a candle shining through the cabin's only window drew him inexorably. As usual, he entered without knocking. Catherine was there, sitting at a wooden table covered with dried leaves, a small knife in her hands.
"If I hadn't recognized your ugly gait, I could have slit your throat," she said without looking up from her work.
"With this toothpick ?" William sneered.
"Haven't you ever been taught manners? Or are you always breaking into people's homes without permission ?"
"Come on, it's dark, I wanted to make sure you were safe," he said with a predatory smile.
She rolled her eyes without hiding her amusement.
"What are you cooking ? A poison ? If it's quick-acting, I might be interested." he asked as he examined the organised chaos laying on the table.
"Some soothing herbal teas for old Thomas's stomach aches. But if you insist, I can find a remedy for your sharp tongue."
He laughed softly, his black curls dancing on his shoulders as his eyes wandered over the shelves.
"Who taught you to heal with herbs ?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"My grandfather."
"Was he a healer ?"
"No, but he learned everything from a shepherd who was also the healer of his village. My grandfather never dared... to use his talents."
"Why ?"
She pursed her lips, hesitating to answer him.
"He said that... it was as much a blessing as a curse. People... if you can take advantage of them so well, it's because they're not very thoughtful. It's not their fault. We're in a small village, far from the big cities and here, no one has access to education. All they know is hard work. I'm lucky to have been able to learn to read and write, even more so since I'm a woman. My grandfather was afraid that he would be accused of being a magician."
"But not you ?"
"They all already say that I'm a witch. But I guess as long as I cure them, they go with it," she replied with a smirk.
"And this ? Is it a love potion ?" he asked sarcastically, lifting a vial with an unappetizing greenish colour.
"Why ? You think you need it ? I'm afraid that if someone fell in love with you, your oversized ego would crush them."
He put the vial down with a slight smile, as much stung as amused.
"You are cruelly honest, Catherine. You have the art of seeing people, don't you ?"
She raised her head to plunge her green eyes into his.
"Let's say that... when you live among liars, you learn to read between the lines to guess the truth."
William swallowed, tense, perplexed. What did she know about him?
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Two days later, the wind howled above the village and the rain had just started to fall fiercely. William, soaked to the bone, his coat stuck to his skin, knocked on Catherine's door.
"You have learned to knock," she noted when she recognized him after opening the door.
Without waiting for her permission, he pushed her roughly inside, shaking himself like a wet dog in front of the fireplace, making the water fall from his black curls.
"I was hoping you would be kind enough to welcome me into your... home."
"I am always kind enough to stray dogs," she replied, taking a cloth to wipe the floor he had just soiled with his muddy boots.
"I was surprised by the rain," he explained, rubbing his hands in front of the fire.
She did not answer, placing a bowl on the table where a leak in the roof let water trickle through. She then returned to her concoctions, weighing and mixing herbs diligently. A soft silence settled between them, almost comfortable, but William could not help but break the surrounding tranquility:
"Why aren't you married ?"
"Because no one has ever proposed to me."
"According to old Thomas, two men asked your father for your hand in marriage in the past, but you refused them and your father accepted your decision."
"Old Thomas talks too much," she mumbled.
"Why do you stay alone ? Doesn't it weigh on you ?"
She thought for a moment before answering, her expression serious.
"Yes, sometimes, but... I want... I want an equal, someone who would understand me, with whom I could talk. Not to be the maid of a man who will order me around and beat me when I rebel."
William nodded gravely.
"And you, why do you stay in a place you despise ?"
"I'm looking for answers and also... Because I have nowhere else to go," he said in a breath.
She stopped her gestures for a moment to look at him, a glint of understanding in her eyes.
"I'm afraid you're in the wrong place. This village has nothing to offer."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed far away compared to the storm in their hearts.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was Saturday, market day. She was there, selling some remedies. William stopped in front of her stall, grabbing a jar to examine it.
"It's amazing how these gullible little beings who believe in the coming Armageddon aren't afraid of your magic potions," he said, opening the bottle to smell what it contained.
"They'd rather not suffer than believe in their superstitions," she said, snatching the bottle from his hands.
He opened another bottle and she sighed, exasperated.
"You have nothing better to do," she said, retrieving her small jar of salve she used for skin irritations.
"I'm very busy, quite the contrary. I observe the world, I think..."
"You think, you ?" she asked sarcastically.
"I'm thinking about how to charm the little healer around here."
She stood there for a minute, her eyes widening slightly, but she quickly recovered.
"Well, that's a failure," she replied curtly.
He leaned in slightly toward her, his hooked nose almost touching her little mischievous nose. Catherine, as if hypnotized by his big black eyes, was unable to back away.
"I'm not so sure," he said, his tone more serious than ever, "I think you like it a lot more than you care to admit."
He leaned a little closer, his eyes shining with mischief, while she was completely frozen.
"And you're very beautiful when you smile," he added before straightening up and casually walking away.
Catherine looked away, her cheeks red.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The peace William thought he would find was suddenly shattered when a storm, in late spring, came to blow heavily over the fields, devastating the crops, raising the dry dust of the recent drought, breaking the ears of corn which collapsed on the cracked ground.
The villagers were gathered in front of the village church, praying for a solution. A solution that the priest, a plump old man with a red nose and a stern face, brought to them on a platter.
"My sons, my daughters ! Our lands are suffering. Our families are suffering. God is punishing us. He promised us plenty, but he is punishing us. He is punishing us because we have allowed the devil to settle among us," he shouted to the frightened crowd.
William swallowed. How could he know, here, so far from Nottingham ?
"CATHERINE MORTON ! THE HEALER !" he yelled.
William turned livid. Catherine ? This young woman who was born and raised here ? Who had cured the inhabitants, saved their children from deadly fever ?
"Her herbs, her potions... she claims to cure, but at what price ? Her knowledge was given to her by the devil! And God punishes us ! He destroys our crops because we let him settle among us !"
The agitated crowd seemed to quickly forget the good they had done all these years, murmuring among themselves, letting the roar of anger rise, ready to blindly follow this imbecile priest.
"Capture her !" shouted one of them.
William straightened up quickly. Catherine was at home, certainly occupying one or the other of her concoctions. Even if he ran, he would never manage to make her flee. He was thinking at top speed, looking for a solution that did not come.
Meanwhile, two men, encouraged by the priest, approached the small cabin. She was unsuspecting, absentmindedly munching on a piece of bread while reading an old book. She jumped when the door was roughly kicked in, but she didn’t show her fear. She had already figured it out.
“I guess this isn’t a friendly visit,” she said, gently setting her book down.
One of them came up and slapped her so hard she fell off her chair.
“Witch,” he said, spitting in her face.
The two men grabbed her by the arms, dragging her to the village square where the market was usually held. Some of the villagers in the crowd turned their heads away, uncomfortable, while others screamed and spat as she passed.
William didn’t miss his bloody nose and the bruise that was already forming on his cheek. He clenched his fists but refrained from intervening. It wasn’t the right time yet.
Pushed into the centre of the square, Catherine fell to her knees, but the priest pulled her up by grabbing her hair. She said nothing, gritting her teeth to keep them from screaming.
"Admit what you did, witch !"
"I didn't do anything," she said coldly.
He slapped her, so hard that if he hadn't held her back with his other hand, she would have collapsed to the ground. In another time, William, with his power as Sheriff of Nottingham, could have intervened, had the hands of the men who beat her cut off, cut out the priest's tongue. But here, his power was minimal. He was nothing. He had to wait. Acting too soon would make him make a mistake that could well get her killed on the spot. And him with her.
"I'm not a witch," she repeated more weakly, blood flowing from her split lip.
"That's what we'll see ! Bring boiling water ! If you're innocent, as you claim, then God will protect you. If not, your flesh will burn as proof of your sins."
The basin of boiling water was already suspended over the fire, the liquid simmering. Catherine stared at the fire with a mixture of fear and defiance.
"Ah, nothing like boiled hands to brighten a dull day," William said as he approached.
"That's none of your business," the priest said, his annoyance not concealed.
"This is all stupid. If her hands don't burn, what do we do next ? Drown her ?"
Catherine turned her head to him, incredulous. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or if he was truly trying to defend her.
“Let’s get straight to business,” William continued, his gaze dark, “let’s make a pyre tonight, and tomorrow, burn her. If she’s innocent, God will save her.”
Catherine’s blood ran cold. She felt betrayed by this man she had begun to have feelings for.
The priest thought for a moment before nodding.
“We have allowed evil to take root in our community for too long. But it is not too late to cleanse our land !”
“I am not a witch,” she repeated, feeling fear seep into every part of her being.
“A witch would never admit she was one,” a villager shouted.
"She is unrepentant," the priest cried, "she has made a pact with the devil ! There is only one cure: FIRE."
The spell was sealed in an instant and Catherine was locked in the cellar of the church. She would be burned at nightfall.
William, frustrated, grumbled. He had hoped to have all night to carry out his plan. That gave him less time, but he could do it. He had to. All afternoon, he watched them, these idiots who, after a few honeyed words coming from a priest as idiot as they were, would kill an innocent woman who had treated them.
Catherine, locked in the cellar of the small church, was shivering with cold. The rays of the sun barely filtered through the gaps in the stone walls that oozed with damp. The air stank of mold and, exhausted and frightened, Catherine gave way to despair, bursting into tears. She had wanted to help, she had wanted to be useful, to earn a little money to be independent, but her grandfather was right, her knowledge was a curse and now she was going to die.
William, for his part, waited, patiently. He had grown up and lived surrounded by plots, conspiracies and he had been the terrible Sheriff of Nottingham. He knew he had to act discreetly. He waited until the day began to slowly give way to night to sneak inside the church. He had no trouble knocking out the man in charge of guarding the cellar door with a well-placed blow from his stick.
"William ?" Catherine asked as the door to his prison opened on him.
"You'll thank me later, come on !"
He pulled her by the arm roughly. He didn't have much time.
"Wait," she said, trying to stop him.
But William held her a little tighter, preventing her from stopping walking.
"We don't have time, my dear. Try not to slow me down, this is the first time I've done something good and it would be a shame if your heroic rescue failed because you refused to obey."
Confused, Catherine fell silent and followed him, agreeing to abandon herself to him. They had almost rounded the village when an old man with a toothless smile saw them and raised the alarm.
"THEY'RE ESCAPING !"
"Don't let them escape," the priest ordered, "it's the work of the devil ! Catch them and burn them !"
They ran through the dark fields, but they could see the torches getting closer to them. William pushed her towards a thicket.
"What are you doing ?" she asked frightened.
"They're going to catch up with us. Run. I'll distract them."
"They'll kill you !"
"Don't worry, I've survived worse."
He turned away but she caught his rough hand in her tiny, fragile, soft one.
"William..."
He stroked her cheek with his thumb, his gaze softer than she'd ever seen him before.
"I was the Sheriff of Nottingham," he said, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pull away.
"And I survived the sword of Robin of Locksley. Better known as Robin Hood. I'll be fine. Come on, run," he said with a bitter smile.
She reluctantly turned away before starting to run towards the forest. William, armed with an old rusty sword, prayed that his villagers were as bad at fighting as they were at everything else.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Catherine was hiding in the woods. She knew the villagers wouldn't dare venture there, they were convinced a vampire lived there, all because one day, an adventurous little boy had seen a man with dark, greasy hair and a hooked nose walking around there. She knew he was a man and not a vampire. He was also a healer and a nomad, but she had never said anything about it. It had been her secret since she was a little girl.
She jumped when she heard a noise behind her and turned around quickly, a small knife in her hands.
"It's me," William's weak voice said.
"You're hurt," she said as she rushed towards him.
She could see the blood escaping from his shoulder. His face was pale and he was clearly struggling to stay upright.
"Lie down, I'll heal you," she said as she approached.
The wound wasn't pretty and she didn't have much of a solution.
"Do you think you can start a fire ?" she asked him.
"And then you want me to go hunting, maybe ?" he asked with a sarcastic smile.
"I don't have anything on me to heal you, but I can close the wound with fire and a blade."
William knew immediately what she wanted to do and he winced, but he also knew he didn't have much of a solution.
"Won't the fire bring them to us ?" he asked, rubbing two sticks together.
"No, they're afraid of this forest. They'll think it's the vampire."
He raised an eyebrow but refrained from asking any questions.
"You're an idiot," she said, pressing the blade of her knife to the wound, which in the light of the fire seemed less serious than she had first thought.
William screamed so loudly that he made all the bats that haunted the woods fly away. The pain was so great that he thought his eyes would pop out of his head.
"You have no idea, no idea, what you mean to me ! What I would have felt if he had killed you."
"Oh, I think I have an idea, but go on, I like to hear you talk," he growled, sitting up with difficulty.
She stroked the wound with her fingertips, her cool fingers easing the pain. She was impressed that he hadn't fainted. He was strong, so strong.
"I've fallen in love with you," she whispered.
"Of course," he said with a big smile
His eyes filled with tears and when one of them escaped, rolling lonely down his cheek, he caught it with his fingertips.
"Catherine, don't cry. Everything will be fine. Make me survive and we'll see where this leads," he told her gently.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Two years later:
A rare sun lit up the Scottish moor, illuminating the white carpet that covered the floor like a thousand diamonds.
Inside the stone cottage, William sat by the fire, reading aloud while Catherine prepared a herbal tea to soothe the throbbing pain of her old scars.
She held out the cup to him but he grabbed her by the wrist, forcing her to sit on his lap.
"I like it," he whispered against her ear.
"Me sitting on your lap ?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Just being a man. A man with a woman. Among these Scots who don't seem to care about my... slight quirks."
"They don't care because here, you're just a man. No one knows who you were. Here, you get a second chance," Catherine replied, smiling.
"You're my second chance. For a long time, I had to pay the consequences of my past actions, but you, you are the consequence of my redemption. And the consequences for saving you, for loving you, they never end. Except that for once, it's not a curse but a blessing."
She looked at him tenderly, placing a hand on his cheek.
"You've made my life sweeter, William. Even if you're just an insufferable jerk," she replied, kissing him on the nose.
They exchanged a knowing smile before going out together. Tonight would be Christmas Eve, and William was looking forward to celebrating it with Catherine. In the best possible way. In their bed. Naked. And he hoped that the consequences of this night would appear very quickly. Within nine months.
Chapter 9: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 9 - UNWANTED SOLITUDE [B1]
Summary:
She was the one. He knew it at first sight. He has been alone for a long time, a solitude he has never been able to fulfill but she was the one, even though she doesn't want him.
Chapter Text
He had noticed her one evening at the theatre. She was in the stalls, the seats reserved for modest people who could not afford a seat. He had noticed her before the play began, a Shakespearean drama, not that he had followed any of the action. The scene, at no time, had fascinated him as much as this charming creature whose curls fell in cascades on her shoulders instead of being tied in a bun as propriety demanded. She stood straight and when she had raised her bright green eyes to him without seeing him, he had been captivated, hypnotized.
After that evening, he had not really thought about her, until that September afternoon when he had seen her in a dusty old bookshop where she was interested in a collection of poetry. He had gone in to buy a societal work that was causing a stir in court. He had been struck by her obvious education, yet her clothes betrayed her low status. She must have attended a parish school or one of her unofficial girls' schools that, in addition to teaching them how to be good wives, also taught them how to read and write and the basics of mathematics.
That was when the bookseller came up to her briskly, snatching the book from her hands.
"Miss, these books are for sale, you don't leaf through them like newspapers," he growled.
She looked down, blushing slightly.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, nervously playing with the ribbon of her dress.
The bookseller was about to retort, but Richard intervened, his deep voice echoing in the small bookstore.
"I don't think she did any harm to your books by leafing through them, sir," he said sternly.
"Lord... Lord Tur... Lord Turpin," the salesman stammered, bowing exaggeratedly. "I know she can't buy it," he added pettily.
The young woman blushed a little more, embarrassed at being humiliated in this way. Richard raised an eyebrow.
"Did she tell you ?"
"No, but I know her family well. Her father is a small merchant without money who struggles to make ends meet."
His humiliation was total and Turpin did not miss the eyes that welled up in his eyes.
"Miss is here at my request. This book, she bought it for me, but I think I will have to buy my books elsewhere," Turpin replied, his eyes flashing.
He grabbed the young woman's arm and led her out of the store without knowing what strange force was taking hold of him. He would never have done such a thing under normal circumstances.
"Sir," she said, surprised and frightened by his gesture.
"I couldn't let him insult you any longer," he said, finally releasing her.
She looked up, surprise evident on all her features.
"You shouldn't have done that, he won't allow me to come back and he's the only dealer who gives him prices..." she hesitated for a moment, biting her lower lip, "correct," she finally breathed.
"Reading is a rare quality, especially for a young woman..." he stopped himself just in time to say of your condition, "I know a small bookstore near Fleet Street where you can find what you're looking for at a low price. It's where shrewd men buy their books for next to nothing."
That was completely false. This bookstore was one of the most expensive in London, but he would make sure that the seller gave him the lowest possible prices against the promise that he would pay the difference.
She just nodded, clearly intimidated by his imposing stature.
"May I ask who I have the honour of speaking to ?" he finally asked.
"Emily. Emily Everwood, sir," she said before quickly correcting herself, "Lord Turpin."
"So you know who I am," he said more to himself.
"Well, you were in the paper yesterday morning," she said, looking up at his for the first time.
Indeed, one of his judgments had caused a sensation. A thirteen-year-old boy who had been punished with one hundred lashes before being sent to work on a plantation in the United States.
"I should be going. Thank you, sir," she said, looking down again.
She walked away quickly under Richard's heavy gaze as he watched her fade into the London fog. It had been a long time since he had felt this way. The last time was for a young woman named Lucy. She had rejected him for a penniless barber and was now living in a small, shabby apartment above a pie shop with their little girl. It had taken him a while to process the rejection, but he had finally moved on, vowing never to fall in love again. Except that he had just fallen in love again.
It didn't take him long to learn that she was the daughter of a respectable merchant but ruined by unfortunate investments two years earlier. He still ran his small business, but he was desperately short of money and the old man was ill.
She looked young, but she was only sixteen years younger than him. Nothing insurmountable. Not that age was any obstacle in their patriarchal society, but he didn't want a child to educate, he wanted a woman to support him as he turned forty-eight.
He thought for a long time. Was it worth the risk ? She was penniless, without title. She would bring him nothing compared to all that he would bring her. But he was in love and if he wanted to ensure his descendants, it was now or never.
So he had gone to the Everwoods one afternoon, dressed in his most sober frock coat, his back straight, his cane in his hand which clattered on the pavement. Emily's father had come to open the door for him. He was a tired but affable old man. He had stood there in awe as he saw the High Judge of London at his door, thinking quickly who he might still owe money to. Probably a lot of people.
"Mr Everwood, I am here on a matter of the utmost importance. May I come in ?"
The poor man stepped back slightly, his eyes wide with fear, to let Richard into his house, which was in serious need of work, even though his daughter maintained it with care.
"I... I can raise the money," Mr Everwood began.
Turpin held up a hand to interrupt him.
"That is not why I am here. However, the proposition I intend to make to you could solve all your problems," he began with controlled confidence, "I have noticed your daughter, Emily. I believe she deserves a better future than what you can offer her."
Mr Everwood clenched his jaw but said nothing, much to Richard's satisfaction.
"I can offer her a decent life, a position, a life where she will want for nothing. If you would grant me her hand."
The silence that fell was heavy. Mr. Everwood did not know what to say. He had not expected this and even less from a man like The Death's Judge.
"Dad, you can't decide for me," Emily's voice startled her as she threw open the door to his room.
Richard did not know that she was there listening at the door, but he did not blink.
"My daughter, think of our situation. This marriage would bring you so much. Think of your future, I have nothing to offer you, I am sick, I have debts."
"Dad,"
"Emily," her father interrupted him, "he must not be such a bad man and..."
He was interrupted by a coughing fit. Emily immediately handed her a glass of water under Richard's unyielding gaze.
"Miss Everwood, Emily, I am sincere in my desire to make you my wife."
"You don't even know me," she replied sharply.
"We will have plenty of time to get to know each other. After the wedding."
Emily didn't know what to say. She wanted to refuse him, she wanted to get angry, but on the other hand, she also saw the practicalities of accepting. Except that she knew Richard Turpin's reputation. Falling into his hands could be much worse than poverty.
"Emily, you are no longer... you are no longer a young girl. The chances of finding a good husband are almost nil. It is unhoped for."
Emily straightened up abruptly, her cheeks red with anger, stung that her father had dared to remind her of her status as an old maid.
"You want to sell me like one of your sacks of potatoes ? Like one sells a mare ? Dad !"
Richard clenched his fists but tried to keep his cool. He had to play it smart if he wanted to get the outcome he wanted quickly.
"Miss, I'm not here to buy a wife. I'm here because I see in you what I've been searching for a long time without being able to find. I'm sure we can get along. You'll never be afraid to challenge me, you'll never be afraid to put me in my place, and I in return will have a mate. I offer you and your father a better life, away from trouble. Away from misery when your father is dead and you find yourself begging on the streets. But, the choice is yours of course," he whispered the last words.
He suppressed a smile, knowing full well that his arguments had hit the mark.
"I'll come back tomorrow to hear your decision," and with those last words, he took his leave of the Everwoods.
The night was long and full of screams and tears at the Everwoods. When Turpin returned the next day, at nightfall, Emily was nowhere to be seen. She had locked herself in her small room, listening through the door to the exchange between the judge and her father as they discussed her and the bright future that Turpin would offer her.
"I... I know you're a respectable man," her father began.
She wanted to scream.
Lord Richard Turpin, a respectable man ?
What respectable man was nicknamed The Death's Judge ?
He condemned more than he pardoned, had children whipped or had their ears nailed to the ground in public as a "lesson". Would this be what he would do to their children if he did wrong ?
Would he beat them as she had been so often at school for the slightest mistake ?
"I agree to give you her hand. I entrust her to you," her father finished saying.
Her eyes burned but she refrained from shedding a single tear. No, she would not cry even if the bell had just fallen. Sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands clenched on her worn dress, she felt confused. A mixture of anger and resignation. She knew that it was the best thing to do, for her, for her father who had always sacrificed everything for her. Wasn't it up to her now to ensure their survival ?
"I'll be back tomorrow. I hope my fiancée will be here," Turpin said forcefully, turning his head toward the door he knew led to her bedroom.
As promised, he returned the next morning. Emily sat by the fire, her face downcast. She rose slowly as Richard entered.
"I wish to be alone with my fiancée," Richard said to Mr. Everwood.
Emily's father hesitated, it was not right, but one look from Richard dissuaded him from arguing.
"Emily, I know that's not what you wanted," Richard began when they were alone.
"If that's what my father wants, then... then I don't really have a choice, do I ?" she cut him off.
"I wish it were your decision," Richard said in a voice so soft that she looked up in surprise.
He looked at her for a long time, trying to probe her mind, to understand what she really felt. He could discern fear, resignation, but also a slight glimmer of rebellion.
She, she knew that refusing would be madness. Although she was considered one of the prettiest girls in their neighbourhood, she had never been proposed to and honestly, what man would have been worthy enough of her, of her wit, of her vivacity ?
But it was not because Richard Turpin was rich that he would have more respect for her and all that she could offer if only this world of men would offer him a chance.
"It is also my decision," she whispered, "I accept."
She plunged her deep green eyes into Richard's dark ones. She wanted to cry, he could see it, but she bravely held herself back.
"You will not regret it," he whispered, taking her hand, "I promise you."
"Promises mean nothing. Actions are what count," she replied in a harsh voice that surprised Richard.
Without taking his eyes off hers, he pulled a velvet box from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it. Inside was a gold band set with a sapphire.
"To seal our engagement. It belonged to my mother," he said as he slipped it onto her finger.
Emily stared at the ring with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. She had never held anything so expensive in her hands and now, this ring was hers.
"Don't take it off," Turpin said more like an order than a request, "our marriage will be announced soon, you cannot be seen without your engagement ring."
She closed her eyes, understanding the hidden meaning behind this request, this order. Now that she was going to belong to him, she couldn't let doubt hover, humiliate her future husband.
And so, under Richard's strict guidance, the preparations began. The wedding would take place within a fortnight, at the end of September. In the meantime, the Everwoods' debts had been paid in full and a carpenter had come to take care of their dilapidated building.
"The wedding will be worthy of your new life, Emily," Turpin told her one day when he was taking her to see one of London's most renowned dressmakers to have her wedding dress made.
She let herself be undressed, dressed, and measured by the dressmaker, aware that Richard was waiting in the next room. The wedding dress would not be her only gift. He had told her that he did not want her to take her old things. At the manor, all she would have would be new and reflect her new status. She must leave Emily Everwood behind to become Lady Emily Turpin.
Emily, for her part, struggled with a thousand and one conflicting thoughts. She didn't want to become a submissive and silent wife, but did she really have a choice ?
On the wedding day, most of the guests were from Richard's world. On her side, there was only her father and his new suit that Richard had had made so that he would have something decent to wear.
Father and daughter advanced into the small chapel carefully decorated with white flowers. People whispered as she passed, but Emily didn't hear them, as if she had left her body. Arriving in front of Richard, her father lifted her veil and kissed her on the cheek before handing her over to her future husband.
The exchange of vows, the officialisation of the marriage by the priest, Richard's chaste kiss on her cold lips, she had the impression that all this had happened to someone else.
During the reception in a posh tea room, Richard was more than in his element while she, intimidated and trembling, would have liked to escape, but she couldn't. He held her firmly in his arm.
The end of the evening did not come too quickly for Emily who was at the end of her strength. Short of breath because of the too tight corset, her apprehension of making the slightest misstep and the fear that gripped her throat. The fear of having sealed her fate to that of a monster.
They finally arrived at the manor where the few servants were waiting for them.
"Here is Mrs. Watson, she will take care of you," Richard said, nodding to an old woman with features as severe as his master's.
The old woman led Emily to the bridal chamber and prepared her for the night, undoing her hair, removing her heavy jewellery, and undressing her into a silk and lace nightgown.
Shivering, Emily sat on the edge of the bed, feeling more alone than ever, not knowing that Richard felt this way too. In fact, he had felt this way for a long time, since childhood, since that day when his own mother had told him, when he was only six years old, that she had only had him out of duty and that she didn't care if his father could beat him like a plaster cast as long as he was not at her feet. But with Emily, with his new wife, he hoped to finally fill this unwanted loneliness.
Emily had also been alone all her life. She had been lucky enough to be loved by her father, but she had had a harsh education in this small school for girls that she had attended, where she and the other girls had been regularly beaten for no real reason other than that they were children who had to be taught obedience, submission. She still remembered how, every evening, she hid her tears from her father and where, every morning, her stomach twisted with pain, making her nauseous.
This had lasted until she was ten, when her father had discovered the true harshness of this establishment that promised to raise future young women as worthy as ladies and he had taken her out of school, deciding that she would teach herself at home with the books he could offer her and that she would help him in the store where she could learn to count and do accounting with him.
Growing up, her tendency to refuse the slightest constraint and her astonishing intelligence for a girl of her background and condition had made many men back down, not that she had never had the slightest interest in one of them. But as the years passed, her twenties faded and her beauty began to fade slowly, she too had begun to feel the weight of this unwanted solitude.
She jumped when Richard came into the room, dressed in night pants and the shirt he had worn during the ceremony.
He looked at her, a fire dancing in his eyes and advanced slowly, like a feline circling its prey. Emily. This woman who had captivated him with a single glance in a London theatre was now his, here, in his room and she would soon share his bed and his entire life.
He stopped right in front of her, placed his hand on her cheek and lifted her head gently before leaning down to press his lips to hers tenderly. She pulled back slowly, her eyes losing all defiance, all trace of rebellion. She was scared.
"You're mine now, Emily," Richard whispered.
She closed her eyes, knowing full well that she couldn't stop him from exercising his right as a husband. She had agreed to marry him, she had closed the trap on her herself, and now he could do whatever he wanted with her, subjugate her by any means necessary.
"You're mine and I won't let anyone forget that. And certainly not you."
Chapter 10: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 10 - LINGERING TOUCH
Summary:
David found a old postcard from an old classmate. He was in love with her once. Maybe she was the right one for him. Maybe it's not too late.
Chapter Text
It was so long ago. But he remembered it like it was yesterday. He had been fourteen the first time he had seen her. He had just arrived at his new school, here in Louisiana. She was a year younger than him, but because he had repeated a grade, he had ended up in the same class as her. She was smarter than everyone else, but shy and modest. She was pretty, but she was so introverted that the other boys made fun of her more than they fell in love with her. But he had fallen in love. Not right away, but over time, by dint of observing her, of discovering her in spite of herself.
She was kind but not lacking in character, she loved English literature, had a strange love for Australia and for Marlon Brando.
She was also a dancer. She had been doing classical dance since the age of four and dreamed of joining the prestigious Juilliard. This dream that she carried like a banner, no one believed in it. Neither her teachers, nor her so-called girlfriends and even less her parents. He, however, supported her and believed in it probably even more than she did herself.
They had become friends and between them, a strange tension had quickly been born. A tension between love and friendship, a thin veil that she had always refused to cross. He had had girlfriends, she had been jealous, but had never done anything to break him up or make him understand that she wanted him.
She, for her part, had never had anyone. Rumours were circulating that she preferred girls, but the truth was that she was too focused on her dream, too busy protecting it. According to her, a boy would ruin everything.
David, who was now 42, thought back to her with nostalgia when, while tidying up old boxes at his mother's house who had just passed away, he found an old postcard she had sent him. A postcard from Australia. A simple line: It's as beautiful as I had imagined.
At the time, David had already stopped hearing from her. He was 26, he had just met Lauren and was building his career in the police. But something told him that his best friend of all time, Gemma, had not become a professional dancer.
It had been a long time since he had stopped tidying up, his lingering touch unable to let go of the card.
"Dave, are you eating with me tonight ?"
Her father's voice made her jump. The old man seemed to be between two worlds since the death of his wife, two weeks before, from a long and trying cancer. David had arrived just in time to say goodbye. Lauren hadn't wanted to leave Jodie, their daughter, with them. She had felt that she was too young to witness her grandmother's death. David had protested and cursed, but it had been no use and Jodie had not been able to offer a last kiss to her grandmother who had remained lucid until the end.
"Of course, Dad."
"What are you looking at there ?" he asked as he approached, not having missed the lump in his son's throat when he had spoken.
David held out the postcard to him. Michael Friedman remembered Gemma well. A young girl with a mischievous appearance, shy as can be but well-mannered, who never failed to bring him his favorite chocolates when she came to work on a school project with David.
"Have you heard from her ?"
"Not since... Since this card," David murmured.
When he got home that night, David couldn't even remember the route he had taken, his mind had been so invaded by the memory of Gemma. Where was she and what had happened to her ? Was she still dancing ? Did she have children?
A few days later, while he was working late on some overdue administrative files, a bottle of grape juice to replace his good old whiskey now that he had been sober for two years, Lauren's sine qua non condition if he wanted to continue seeing their daughter. David had complied out of fear of not wanting to see the apple of his eye anymore. He had already suffered enough seeing his wife run away with his colleague and, at the time, friend, to see himself on top of that being separated from his daughter.
While he was alone at the police station, he found himself thinking about Gemma again. There had to be a way to know where she was, what she was doing. He could type her name into the program. And it itched like never before. On the other hand, he knew it was wrong, not that it would be the first time he had searched without being asked, but this was an old friend.
He looked left, right, took a sip of his grape juice, a chocolate chip cookie softened by the heat of the police station, and finally, he typed her name.
Gemma Meredith Penelope Sawyer. She lived in Baton Rouge. Alone. No kids. She was still alive, so she'd gotten two speeding tickets and a third for parking in a handicapped spot.
She lived so close to him. For so long. Years when he could have gotten back in touch. On the other hand, he'd look pretty smart to show up at her house. Did she even remember him ?
"Are you completely sick, Dave, have you been drinking again ?" Sadie asked in an amused voice on the other end of the phone.
"Oh, come on, I'm not asking for the president's private number."
"David, I can't give you information on a young woman just because you knew her in your younger years and suddenly want to get back in touch."
"I'm just asking for an email address, not her social security number !"
A long silence followed, broken only by fingers tapping on a keyboard.
"David, I swear you owe me one for this," Sadie said seriously.
"Whatever you want," David replied, unable to hide his smile.
He had been staring at a blank page for hours wondering what he could possibly write to her without looking like a complete moron. And how would he explain how he got her email address ?
"Damn it, David, get nervous, old chap," he scolded himself.
"Gemma,
This email is probably going to seem strange to you, especially after all these years. I don't expect a response from you. I'm not even sure you remember me.
But I never forgot you. You became my best friend in that school where everything seemed hostile. Where I didn't want to be because I missed my life in Seattle, my friends and my football club.
Last week, I found a card you sent me from a trip to Australia and I thought about you, about those years when you helped me with my homework. Or should I say, when you let me copy your homework so I could get good grades.
I couldn't help but wonder what happened to you. I hope you're well.
David Friedman."
He had reread, edited, deleted, rewritten this email dozens of times, his finger lingering on the send button before finally deciding on impulse.
And thirty minutes later he received a reply.
"David,
Indeed, I did not expect to receive an email from you. Where did you get my email address anyway ?
That said, I am happy to read you after all these years, and of course I remember you.
You were my best friend, my confidant.
I am as well as one can be. And you ?
Gemma."
She had replied. Without hostility. David hesitated for a long moment. Did he want a long correspondence through an exchange of emails ?
No, not really. In the one he sent back to her, he asked her if she wanted to see each other, awaiting her response with apprehension. But when she said yes, he thought his heart would explode, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time.
And now here he was, in this little café in Baton Rouge. And she was late. It wasn’t like her, at least not in the past. She was always the type to show up thirty minutes early. But a sudden thought came to him. Maybe she was already here, but she had changed so much that he didn’t recognize her.
The bell above the red door chimed as David stared at the customers without even bothering to be discreet. He turned and froze. She hadn’t changed. The same slender body, the same deep green almond eyes, the same small round lips. It was her and time had barely taken a place on her face.
“Hello, David,” she said in her soft voice when she reached him.
"Gemma, hello," he whispered.
He felt shy, almost stupid. He invited her to sit down and he couldn't help but stare at her. She had barely changed. Except her eyes. They were dull. There was no longer that passionate woman he had so often admired. Life must have been very hard on her. As it had been on him.
As before, she still didn't drink alcohol and, without understanding why, he felt compelled to tell her that he was abstinent. The relief he felt when she didn't judge him, but just congratulated him, was indescribable. If David were honest with himself, he would admit that she was the one he would have wanted in his life, to marry and it was with her that he would have wanted to start a family. But life had decided otherwise.
"I'm glad you reached out to me," she told him after he told her how he got her email address.
"And I'm glad you agreed to meet me. I wasn't sure... I mean, it's been so long."
"It's just life that separated us. I don't remember that we had a terrible fight or something. We just went our separate ways."
Before they parted, David's hand lingered a little longer than he would have liked. And in that lingering touch, something old and long-lost stirred again.
When she agreed to see him again, for the first time in years, more than a decade, he thought he was finally getting his second chance.
She understood him so well without ever judging him, but it wasn't surprising. She had been accepted to Juilliard at seventeen, but she hadn't gotten a scholarship and her parents couldn't afford to pay for her education. She had worked a series of low-paying jobs, first in Los Angeles where she had wanted to try her luck as an actress or a dancer, but where she had ended up selling burgers in a pair of hot pants and a crop top for a store that was a little too orange for her. and danced in small studios before becoming a ballet teacher for a small studio in New York where she had lived for five years on a pittance and debts. Her parents had helped her pay off her debts and she had returned to Baton Rouge, first to her parents, which she had experienced as the worst of failures.
"The truth is that I wanted to... well, you know what I mean," she had confided to David.
He could see. He had wanted too and if he hadn't had his little Jodie, he surely would have.
"When my grandmother died, my father, my uncle and my two aunts agreed to let me buy her apartment and they were kind enough to give me a price well below what it was worth. I was able to regain a little independence. But not far from Baton Rouge like I had always wanted."
David remembered well this desire she had to want to escape. She had never felt like she belonged in Louisiana.
"No matter where I am, I feel like I never belong," she whispered before giving him a sad smile.
"So what do you do now ?"
"I got a certificate in accounting through night school. I work for a small publishing company. I'm a receptionist, actually, but I help out in accounting sometimes. I'm also allowed to take manuscripts sometimes and give my opinion, even though I know they don't care at all.
"Accountant ?" You?" David said with a smile.
"You can laugh, but you know what, accounting is easier than equations."
He was impressed. She had fallen, got back up and kept going, even if she wasn't entirely happy.
"Are you still dancing ?"
"Yes, I work for Dance & Breath on Wednesday nights and all day Saturdays. It's a very small school and I do it really for the love of it because the pay is minimal, but I don't care about the money. It allows me to keep one foot in dance. And you, do you still play football ?"
"I'm afraid I'm too busy chasing criminals," he said sarcastically.
"Do you like what you do ?"
David froze. It was the first time anyone had asked him that question. He had never asked himself that question.
"Well... I chose this job because I liked it," he replied, thinking.
"And you still like it ?"
I've seen a lot of horror. I've rarely seen good triumph. I don't really know," he admitted.
"But it puts bread on the table," she said, shrugging, "like answering phones and doing the accounting in exchange for a few manuscripts to read."
"You may have held the next big thing in your hands for the next twenty years."
"Maybe."
That night, she had agreed to end the evening at his place. David had had no second thoughts in inviting her, and fortunately so because he had barely settled down on the couch when he had fallen asleep, exhausted from his day of work.
In the morning, she was still there, the coffee had been made and she was reading the thriller he had started two months earlier.
"That really sucks, I don't know how you can read something like that," she told him with a teasing smile.
"I've already solved the mystery," he replied, his voice hoarse with sleep.
He stood up, stretching his arms above his head, growling like a bear before heading towards the sweet smell of coffee and he found himself thinking that he could get used to having her near him every morning.
Weeks passed and the late nights at David's house became whole weekends, weeks and finally, she put her apartment up for rent to move in with him. David thought he was entitled to a second chance in every aspect of his life without knowing that Gemma felt the same way, she who had had so little luck whether it was in love or professionally.
She had finally met Jodie who had immediately adored you. It must be said that the little girl was starting to take an interest in fashion and Gemma had a wardrobe worthy of a clothing store and she didn't say anything when Jodie had fun trying on her things; it didn't take much for Jodie to adopt her and even Lauren seemed to view her ex-husband's new relationship favourably.
"She does you good, David, you can see that," she had told him one evening when he brought her their daughter.
Little by little, Gemma had invested every space in David's life. She supported him, comforted him on the evenings when business marked him so much that he was depressed. She never complained when he came home late or not at all.
The month of December had been particularly trying for David. A difficult investigation into the disappearances of women, women who painfully resembled his Gemma for whom he was afraid every second, for fear that she would be the next one. But he had managed to arrest the culprit a week before Christmas for his greatest relief. He had never said anything about his fears to the young woman so as not to overwhelm her, but she had known how to interpret his silences and help him without pushing him to talk.
On that Christmas Eve, he and Jodie were at her parents' house. They had also invited David's father so that he would not be alone and David had found that very kind of them. But that evening, David's mind was far from the turkey and roast potatoes, from the smile of his father who got along wonderfully with Gemma's thanks to their shared passion for fly fishing. Jodie was having fun with the family's old German shepherd and she would soon receive the three-story Barbie house that she had asked her father for since April.
But all David could think about was the moment when he would be alone with Gemma. Just before midnight, he would ask her if they could go to her car. He would tell her how much she had given him hope, how happy he was to have reconnected with her and to have her back in his life. He was happy that after all these years, the feelings he had once had for her had returned strong and violent and that they were reciprocated.
And in less than an hour, he would take out the green velvet box he kept inside his inner pocket, he would open it, and he would ask her to share the rest of her life with him, if she felt able to bear him when he was old and grumpy. She would surely tell him playfully that he was already old and grumpy and he would love her more for it. In the meantime, he would keep his hand on the small box, just to make sure the ring it contained wouldn't disappear, safely tucked away beneath his lingering touch.
Chapter 11: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 11 - OUT OF REACH [B2]
Summary:
Turpin has her now. She is his. But she is still so out of reach.
Chapter Text
Richard pulled back and watched her. He wanted to take her, right there, right now, and do a thousand and one other things to her. But when she was ready. If she said yes. If she said yes, he would introduce her to a world of carnal pleasure that would mix all of her depravities. He would cherish her, cherish her body, teach her that pleasure could be born from pain. But not by ripping her purity away tonight, even though he had every right to do so.
"I won't take anything you don't want to give me willingly, Emily. But I promise you that you'll end up begging me to make you mine," he said, his voice echoing like a clap of thunder.
Emily raised her head as if to make sure he meant it. At the same time, he placed a kiss on her forehead.
"Why did you choose me ?" she dared to whisper as he looked at her with his piercing gaze.
"Because you come from another world. A harsh world that has spared you nothing. You will appreciate everything I have to offer you. But don't get me wrong, the world I live in is the stuff of dreams for people like you, but there is more than just wealth and finery. Cruelty is just as present," he said.
It sounded like a riddle, but Emily didn't dare ask more questions.
"I just hope that one day, you can love me despite my faults," he added softly.
"And if I never fall in love with you ?" she dared to ask.
"Then, I will be satisfied with whatever you want to give me. That will be my sentence for the life I have led," he said without anger before turning away.
Emily stood alone, staring at the door he had just closed for several minutes before finally slipping into the large four-poster bed. Despite the comfort of the sheets, she barely slept, worried that he would come back, that he would take back his word. But in the early morning, she heard the front door slam. She rushed to the window that overlooked the street to see him dressed in his traditional austere attire, his top hat on his head, his cane clicking on the dirty London pavement to go to court.
And very quickly, she discovered that the court was her husband's mistress. He spent all his time there, even on weekends, and when he wasn't there, he worked in his office in the manor on his heavy files. They only saw each other at dinner and sometimes a little in the evening before each went to their room.
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Regularly, the maid brought her gifts from her master. Jewels, books, and one evening even a small leather purse that contained more coins than Emily had ever held in her hands.
"Your monthly allowance for your private expenses, Madam," the maid told her before she withdrew.
The young woman, who had just emerged from her bath and was ready for bed, wrapped herself in a silk dressing gown and walked barefoot to her husband's study. No sound came from within. She took a deep breath, then knocked timidly on the door. A sharp "come in" made her jump and she wanted to slip away, but she forced herself to push the heavy chain door open.
"Emily ?" asked Turpin, surprised to see her in the doorway.
At once, his stern features relaxed. He had not expected it to be her.
"I..."
"Something askew ?" he asked, seeing her hesitate.
Seeing that she was standing by the door, he stood up, closed it gently, then took her hand and led her to an armchair by the fireplace where he sometimes read late at night when he needed a break.
"I... my maid gave me this," she said, handing him the leather purse.
Richard raised an eyebrow, not sure what was troubling his young wife.
"Isn't it enough ? It's a little more than what my father gave my mother, one of the few indulgences she was entitled to and she valued it more than anything. She always had plenty for her little pleasures," he said, trying to catch her eyes.
"No, it's not that," she answered in a trembling voice, "it's that... what am I supposed to do with it ?" she asked, finally looking him in the eye.
Richard stood there for a moment, biting his lip to keep from laughing.
"The spent ?" he suggested, trying not to make fun of her.
"But, you forbade me from leaving the manor without you and everything I need is bought by the servants who take care of supplying the house," she said, lowering her eyes, "and you're already paying for that," she added shyly.
Richard smiled indulgently. If he had forbidden her to leave the manor in his absence, it was only for safety. The streets were dangerous for the wife of the High Judge of London, The Death's Judge. And she was right, a servant took care of buying the few cosmetics and soaps to the lavender sent she was asking for. Nothing too extravagant, which had surprised him at first.
That's why he had decided to give her this small grant every month, so that she would feel less shy about spending her money, but he suddenly realized that she didn't want anything more than what she was already asking for. No expensive jewellery, no fashionable dress. It suddenly hit him harder than before they got married: she came from a family where every penny counted and she was afraid to spend. She must have thought that what she was asking for was already too much when he could have offered her two mansions like the one he already owned if she asked him.
"If you don't know what to do with it, put it away somewhere, and if one day something really makes you happy, you'll have money instead. You won't have to ask me for permission."
Emily looked up, surprised. She had never expected this from this man. However, a small voice asked her if she was sure that he was acting only out of love and kindness or if he was manipulating her to have her under his thumb. She suppressed a shiver, contenting herself with thanking him before withdrawing, but he stopped her by gently grabbing her hand.
"Would you share a tea with me before you go to bed? Or a hot chocolate ? It is a pleasure that I have recently discovered and I must admit that I never tire of it. The kitchen cupboards are now full of this delicacy that I discovered during an evening at the Haghroves."
"My father never had enough money to buy chocolate," she said, her eyes shining.
Facing her contained joy, Richard allowed himself to smile. He rang a maid to order two cups of hot chocolate and while they waited, he asked her a few questions, nonchalantly.
"Do you have everything you need ?"
"Yes, thank you."
"And is your room warm enough ? I can have a servant get up at night to make sure the fire doesn't die too early if it doesn't."
"No, there's no need to bother a servant. The blankets keep me warm."
He felt frustrated by her measured and timid answers, but he said nothing. He had to be patient, he knew.
When the hot chocolate arrived, he couldn't help but watch her taste the thick liquid, and the smile she gave right after was worth the wait.
"Is it to your liking ?" he asked, taking a sip of his own hot chocolate.
"It's delicious. I think I could get used to it," she said with a small, quiet laugh.
"You just have to ask. You can have one every night if you like."
She gave him a genuine smile that warmed his heart.
"May I escort you to your room ?" he asked, when she had finished.
She nodded and he took her arm, noting with satisfaction that she made no attempt to pull away from him.
"Good night, Emily," he said, kissing her forehead when they reached her bedroom door.
Without waiting for a reply, he headed for his own room, two doors down. And that night, for the first time, Emily fell asleep wondering if she had judged him a little too quickly.
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"She is diligent, but, sir, she has work to do before she can be introduced to society."
It was Mrs. Andrews, an old governess known for having raised many of London's most prominent ladies. Her stern face, which was almost austere in a bun and her dark clothes, was in no way inferior to the natural severity that Turpin exuded in his everyday life.
"But she can do it ?" Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.
"If she keeps trying as hard as she does, yes. But, sir, if you will allow me..."
The governess waited for Richard to give her permission to continue, which he gave with a curt nod.
"Madame is intelligent, no doubt, and her reading proves that she is capable of thinking for herself. But I fear that Madame thinks a little too much. She will have to learn to keep her wits about her if she does not wish to embarrass you in society."
Richard suppressed a smile, but he was not truly worried. He was certain that Emily, with practice, would learn to hold her tongue outside the walls of the manor.
"And she's also lacking in some subjects. In many things a lady should know. She doesn't speak a foreign language, doesn't play a musical instrument, her knowledge of history is limited and... good Lord, I've never seen such clumsy embroidery as I have little girls of five."
"You're paid, handsomely paid, to teach her everything she needs to know," Turpin pointed out dryly.
"Of course, sir, but I think she would benefit greatly from the help of a tutor to educate her. She should at least learn French and know the history of our country like the back of her hand seems important to me."
Richard stroked his chin with his fingertips, feeling the hairs of his budding beard scratched under his nails.
"You're right," he finally said, "I'll leave it to you to choose a tutor for her. The best."
The old governess left satisfied. It would take a long time to make Emily a woman worthy of her new rank, but she would get there.
However, what Richard had noticed was not his wife's lack of knowledge in certain areas or the fact that she sometimes spoke without thinking. No, what brought him great satisfaction was that she was trying. Despite the fact that the situation was still tense between them, that the marriage had not yet been consummated after almost a month of union and that she still seemed so out of reach, she was sincerely trying to integrate into her new world, into her husband's world.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Richard and Emily shared their breakfast at the dining room table, one of the few rooms in the manor that benefited from a large part of the natural light thanks to its large windows. Richard had just introduced Emily to another of the pleasures of the table: fruit dipped in melted chocolate.
"It's delicious," she said, chewing on the piece of chocolate-covered apple he'd just handed her.
"I'm glad you like it, but before I forget," he began, standing up.
He went to the dresser drawer behind him and pulled out a book.
"I have a gift for you."
He handed her a book with a worn cover. It wasn't new, but it was a first edition of a work she'd told him about one day while walking through the manor's gardens. A book she'd wanted so badly to own but had never managed to scrape together the money before it was taken from the bookstore.
"How did you know ?" she asked, her eyes shining with emotion.
"You told me about it one afternoon. I haven't forgotten," he answered simply.
She opened it carefully as if it were the most precious of treasures.
"It's not new, but when I visited Lord Softhshire, I saw it and he agreed to sell it to me, it's..."
"It's beautiful, thank you," she interrupted him.
The sincerity in Emily's eyes made Richard's heart swell with love. He was certain that if his father had given his mother an old, worn book, she would have had a fit, even if it had been a first edition. Although on reflection, his mother would have had a fit at the very idea of receiving a book, she who was not a great reader.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The end of October was fast approaching and with it the gloomy sky seemed to weigh everything down. A month. It had now been a full month since he had been married and Emily was still as out of reach as ever, to Richard's great dismay.
However, he covered her with gifts, she received her small monthly grant and her father no longer lacked anything. But she remained indifferent and he who had thought that it was only a matter of time before she accepted the conditions of their marriage, that all this had been done only for her good and that his love for her was sincere, was now beginning to doubt.
"Is everything okay ?"
Emily's frail voice interrupted his train of thought. He raised his gray, expressionless eyes to her.
"Yes. A court case that is taking me longer than I thought," he lied.
He was about to get up to go to his office when she asked him timidly if he wanted to accompany her to the gardens to walk with her.
Surprised that this request came from her for once, he did not hesitate for a second to accept.
"Are the lessons with your tutor going well?" he asked although he already knew the answer.
"Yes, I'm learning a lot. He's more patient than..." she stopped suddenly, biting her lip.
"What ?" Richard insisted gently.
"I... I went to a small girls' school when I was a child and... Well, I mostly learned discipline there with rulers. He said it taught us discipline, obedience to our parents and our future husbands and obedience. All I learned was distrust," she admitted, a slight blush on her cheeks.
"I understand," he said, taking her cold little hand in his, "in boarding school, I was no stranger to this kind of method. And even at home. My father was... well, he was a father and he believed that every misdeed, no matter how small, should be corrected. With his riding crop preferably, for me as well as for my two younger sisters. I was later entitled to the whip, to teach me to be a man, a real one," he explained bitterly.
Hearing this, Emily's heart hurt a little bit. She knew Richard wasn't the only one who had experienced this kind of discipline. It ran in every family, rich or poor. Her own uncles had always been much harsher with their sons, though some girls were no exception.
"My father was always good," she said, squeezing Richard's hand in hers, "he always protected me. I never had to fear his hand in our home, but he also wanted me to have a chance at an education. He said that knowing how to read and write was the key to knowledge, so... he sent me to school longer than he really wanted."
She stopped to look at him and for the first time, he saw a glimmer of understanding in her beautiful green eyes. And for the first time, he felt truly connected to her.
"You've had to endure things you didn't deserve, Emily. But there will never be any of that here, in our home, and you will never have to fear me."
"I don't think you deserved to endure what you've endured either. But... I don't want to... if we ever have children, they will never have to fear you either."
Richard didn't answer, but a strong emotion took hold of him. "If we ever have children." It meant that she was considering a real future with him and that maybe she was even becoming less out of reach than he thought.
When they shared their dinner that night, Richard knew that something had just changed between them. For the first time, she was seeing him beyond the mask he wore, for the first time she was no longer seeing The Death's Judge. And she, by confiding this piece of her past to him, had given him access to a vulnerability that she normally kept to herself.
Emily, for her part, could not deny Richard's obvious efforts. Even less the increasingly strong attraction she felt for this man she had first taken for her jailer. For the first time, she considered that she could truly be happy with him.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This evening, the day had been hard. Richard was exhausted, endless sentences, making him lose faith in the human race. But the idea of going home and sharing a hot chocolate with Emily was enough to make him feel better.
"Emily, is everything okay ?" he asked as he entered the large living room where she was sitting in front of the window, observing the horizon that the dark night covered, hiding the gardens from her view.
"It's nothing, I was just lost in my thoughts," she murmured. "And can I share your thoughts ?" he dared to ask, a hint of caution in his voice.
"I... I prefer to keep them to myself. If you don't mind," she replied, lowering her eyes.
Richard didn't insist, but he was slightly hurt. If only he could have guessed what the young woman was thinking. That the one who seemed so out of reach was thinking of him, of the love she was beginning to harbour for this man she hadn't wanted. But she was too afraid to tell him.
But the coldness of her answers was starting to get on Richard's nerves.
"Emily, have I done anything since our marriage to deserve such coldness ? Have I broken my promises ?"
She looked up, surprised by his tone.
"N... No," she stammered, "you are very generous. More than I would have imagined," she admitted.
"Then why do you continue to push me away ? To treat me like a stranger ?"
"I..."
She didn't know what to say. Her natural reserve kept her from opening up more, and then, there was always that hint of doubt. How could she be sure that he wasn't still hiding who he really was from her ?
"I know I bought your hand," Richard began cautiously, "but, Emily, you know, very few marriages begin with love. I know that's what you've read in your books, but books aren't the truth. If you'd give us a chance, you'd see that I can be more than The Death's Judge."
She didn't answer, her thoughts a whirlwind that made her heart beat faster, too fast. She finally lifted her head, a slight smile on her lips, and that was enough for Richard. At least for the moment.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Are you reading a storybook ?"
Richard's baritone voice made her jump. She hadn't heard him arrive. "I found it among yours. My father used to read me this book when I was a little girl," she confided to him.
Richard had noticed that she was opening up more and more. Always in bits and pieces, but he cherished every fragment she was willing to give him. He dared to take a chance by asking her about her mother.
"I don't remember much about her. She died when I was only four. After that it was just my father and me. My grandmother a little, but she couldn't read. She died when I was eight years old."
"My mother never read to me. My father, he was only used to discipline. Except for my sisters, he disciplined, but he also loved them. They were entitled to much more attention than me. Especially Anne, she has always been his favourite."
Emily looked at her with pain.
"Do you think your father didn't love you ?"
"I think... he loved like a father of our time. Men discipline, women comfort and love children. Except for my mother, my mother preferred to go out with her friends to chic tea rooms or hang out in her boudoir."
"My father wasn't like that. But I know I was lucky, I know he's the exception," she said, gently reaching out her hand toward Richard's without daring to take it.
"I'm glad you had someone good by your side," Richard whispered to her before continuing, "but I don't only have bad memories with my father. He taught me to ride a horse, something that only he and I shared. And the older I got, the more he and I understood each other."
"Is it to please him that you became so hard?" she dared to ask.
Richard thought for a moment.
"Maybe. But he didn't make me wholly. I was already a young boy with a strong temperament."
And calculating, and manipulative, and quick to get whatever he wanted through trickery, he thought without saying it out loud.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
November was well underway. Richard and Emily had been married for two months soon. A union that had still not been consummated. And that frustrated Richard terribly. He wanted her. He wanted to make her his. But she was always out of reach.
Yet, she confided more and more. Strangely, she had the power to make him talk. About his childhood, his studies, his work, his shadows but also about the light that she managed to see in him.
And this light made Emily pensive every time she perceived it. She thought more and more about Richard, the sincerity in his voice, his measured gestures, his gaze that always seemed so full of affection when he looked at her.
This That night, she couldn't sleep. After tossing and turning, she decided to go to the library to get a book. Except when she came back in, she was surprised to see Richard sitting in front of the fireplace, a book of poetry in his hand.
"Emily ?" he asked when he heard the door creak.
"I couldn't sleep," she justified herself, "I wanted to get a book."
"Take whatever you want," he said with a kind smile.
"Do you like poetry ?" she asked, pointing to the book he was reading.
"Tonight, I like it."
She looked at him, her gaze hesitantly moving between him and the chair across from him. She finally sat down next to him. Richard held his breath at the initiative.
"Do you want me to read for you ?"
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and inside, Richard's heart seemed to explode.
Richard's deep voice filled the room like a lullaby. When he was done, she thanked him half-heartedly before heading back to her room. And once again, she left Richard in a confusion that he feared would drive him mad. She was there, so close, and yet so out of reach.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
November was drawing to a close, and by early morning, a light dusting of snow had surprised the streets of London. Richard hated snow. It was dirty, cold, and wet. Luckily, it was Sunday, so he didn't have to go to court.
"I like snow," Emily told him.
Of course she does, he thought. There were no two people more different than he and she.
Emily opened her mouth several times to speak, but each time, she closed it, silent. Richard did not push her. He could sense that she had something on her heart, but if he pressed her she might escape him, like the shy bird she was.
"Why are you so patient with me ?" she finally asked.
He straightened up to look at her and in his eyes, she read all the sincerity in the world.
"Because I love you."
That was his answer. Simple. Direct. Truthful. Falling like a judgment.
"I... I've always been afraid to love. To love is to lose those you love. To love is to suffer."
Richard took her hand, bringing it to his lips.
"Emily, I can't promise to be forever. But I'm here, now. And if you'll trust me, maybe we can enjoy the time we have." She squeezed his hand a little tighter, a small smile playing on her lips. And for the first time since their marriage, she didn't seem so out of reach.
Chapter 12: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 12 - MISSING MIRTH
Summary:
She misses him. She has no more joy in her life. Except for him. Their little son. But maybe Christmas miracle exists after all.
Chapter Text
A card had arrived in September. A card with nothing on it. A card from Germany. Your heart had skipped several beats. You only knew two people in Germany: Hans and his brother.
Hans had died following the attack on the Nakatomi Tower. This simple thought brought tears to your eyes that had never lost their veil of sadness since that cursed day. You had always had doubts about who Hans was and that night, when in the house you shared in the outskirts of London you recognized him on television, your suspicions were confirmed. At the time, you did not know the exact nature of what he did for a living. Hans and you had a tacit agreement: you did not ask questions. Never.
You had tried, of course, but each time you had done it was the only time you had seen him get angry with you and Hans' anger was impressive. You had quickly stopped questioning him, being angry with him was something you didn't like to experience even if later in the night, to make up for it, Hans offered you your best sex.
His death had taken a toll on you. You were still tired, your eyes were surrounded by black bags and your smile no longer reached your gaze. The spark of life that had captivated Hans two years before had gone out.
If you continued to hold on day after day, it was for your son, a surprise gift from Hans, his only inheritance. Of course, no one could know who the father was and your family was very angry with you for having made a baby all by yourself. So you received very little help from them. Fortunately, Hans had thought of everything and his house in London as well as his English and Italian bank account had been put in your name.
Indeed, when he died, a lawyer came to find you accompanied by Simon, Hans' big brother. The two men had explained to you that Hans had prepared everything in case one day he didn't have to come back so that you wouldn't be left with nothing. The man was cunning and intelligent. He had many bank accounts in different parts of the world as well as many properties, all under false identities.
In order to have the full acquisition of the money and the house, you had to sign papers that ensured your silence. As if you would have been shouted from the rooftops that you had been the mistress of one of the most infamous terrorists ?
It was only a month later that you had discovered that you were pregnant. It was a surprise as you had always used contraception, but when the doctor had asked you if you wanted to keep the child or not, you knew that you could never be separated from this little being that was growing inside you. It was a piece of you and Hans, of the love that you had shared. That was all you had left of him.
Your son had celebrated his first birthday in July. It had been a sunny day that you had spent in Kensington Park, where it all began. You had then eaten cake for dinner and drank chocolate milkshakes until your stomach hurt. It had been a good day. One of the few where you had not cried thinking about his father.
Hans haunted your thoughts day and night. You had never realized how alone you were until you had him in your life. Of course, you had not been alone for long as eight months later the fruit of your love came into the world.
Your pregnancy had not been easy, between the incessant nausea, the swollen legs and the lack of support from your loved ones. But to your greatest surprise, one fine morning, you had found Simon on your doorstep. He had heard the good news, though he had refused to tell you how he had done it.
He had stayed by your side until your nephew was born, and then, as his brother knew how to do, he had disappeared without leaving you any news. You didn't even know where to find him, but it didn't matter, he knew where to find you.
So when the card had arrived, you had assumed it was from Simon. Did he want to meet you in Germany ?
There was no way you were traveling with such a young child. If Simon wanted to talk to you, he would have to come himself. Besides, you had started working part-time at a small local bakery and you didn't feel like asking for time off yet. Not that you needed to work, not with what Hans had left you, but it allowed you to get out of the house and take your mind off things for a short while. Meanwhile, your son was in daycare and you knew it was for the best because he was socializing while you were learning not to cling to him like a lifeline. This child couldn't grow up with your traumas.
However, two more cards had arrived inSeptember, four in October and eight in November. Finally, on December 13th, a final card had arrived, a funny Christmas card with a three-dimensional reindeer and with only one word written on it: Magdeburg.
In view of Simon's insistence, you had decided on a whim to pack up your and your son's things and had driven to the station where you had taken the train to Cologne. The five hours of train travel had passed like nothing. Your son had slept the entire journey to your great relief while you had tried, in vain, to immerse yourself in a book. Indeed, your mind had not stopped drifting to Hans. Hans, your tender lover who had taught you to love and to be loved.
You also wondered what his brother could possibly have to say to you to insist so much. Why couldn't he come? Was he in trouble? You didn't want to be mixed up in the dangerous world to which he belonged. You didn't want your son to be in danger because of his father and uncle's inheritance.
In Cologne, you had rented a car and driven to Magdeburg, but once there, you didn't know what to do, who to look for, where to go. You didn't have to wait long. You were in front of the Kriegerdenkmal with your son who needed to stretch his legs when your phone rang. A German number.
"Hello ?" you said carefully.
"You took your time [Y/N]," Simon's voice rang out.
"What do you want ? I'm traveling with a baby," you answered curtly.
Simon just chuckled.
"You have a room reserved at a small inn in the city under the name of Sarah Fears. You'll spend the night there," he ordered you.
"I'm afraid the name on my passport isn't Sarah Fears," you scoffed.
"It's a code name. The receptionist is one of my men. He'll give you new papers. Tomorrow, he'll go and bring back the car you rented while another one will be waiting for you. The GPS will already be programmed, you'll just have to follow the directions."
You didn't have time to say anything before he had already hung up. A minute later, your phone rang, a message from Simon with an address, that of the hostel you assumed.
The hostel, which reeked of Christmas, was stuck between two old dilapidated houses. Nothing that inspired confidence. However, you obeyed Simon and as expected, a man gave you new identity papers for you and your child as well as money.
"I need the car keys and your phone," he ordered you bluntly.
You hesitated for a second, asking him what all this was about, but he refused to answer, stating that he was following Simon's orders and that he didn't have to answer your questions. Frustrated, you handed him your keys and phone, in exchange for which he gave you a new one.
"Don't turn it on until you get permission from the boss," he said before leading you to your room.
You didn't like it much, but there wasn't much you could do. The room was small and musty, yet you didn't have a better option. You were in a foreign country in the middle of nowhere. You didn't speak German and you didn't have a cell phone anymore. Well, you did, you had a brand new, state-of-the-art one, but you weren't allowed to turn it on. You didn't know why, but something told you that it was better to listen to what you were told. You were in dangerous waters. The price to pay for having loved Hans, you thought bitterly.
The night was long, your son refusing to sleep and crying until exhaustion. He was now asleep in the back while you struggled to keep your eyes open. The GPS had indicated Liepzig. You didn't even know this name before this morning, but that was where you were going now.
You stopped in front of an old abandoned building. It was your destination apparently. Before leaving, the receptionist of the hostel had given you an envelope and told you not to open it until you arrived. So you opened it, eager to know what was inside. Another Christmas card, with a snowman with a smile more scary than friendly was inside. On the back were instructions. You had to leave the keys in the ignition, take your son and all your belongings, put the phone in the glove compartment as well as your old passport.
Worried, you wondered if you and your child were in danger. Did anyone know that Hans had a child? Was that why Simon was taking so many precautions ? Adrenaline, mixed with fear, invaded your body and you felt bile rise to your mouth. You took a sip of water, then you followed the instructions to the letter. In the glove compartment, there was another card, this one illustrated with a Santa Claus. On the back, Simon ordered you to enter the building.
You entered cautiously, holding your son tightly in your arms. Anxious, you wondered what you would do if this was all a trap. You didn't know how to fight and you didn't even have a knife on you, although you probably wouldn't have known how to use it other than to cut your hand. However, you were certain of one thing: Simon would not put his nephew in danger.
You waited for about twenty minutes inside the old building. You heard someone drive away mixed with the sounds of the city. After twenty long and interminable minutes, Simon came in.
"Simon," you said in a breath, "why all the mystery ?"
He didn't answer, just walked briskly towards you to grab his nephew.
"There's the little prince," he said with a smile.
Your son watched him, intrigued. After all, he had only met him once, when he was born.
"Simon ?" you insisted.
"Hush ! You'll get the answers in due time. In the meantime, don't ask any questions."
His authoritative tone and his gaze that left no room for discussion reminded you of Hans. Hans that you saw every day in the hazel eyes of your son who had also inherited his hooked nose and his predatory smile.
"You're going to stay at my place until the 24th."
"What ? No !" you cried.
You told him that you couldn't stay that long, that you had your life in London and your job.
"A job ?" Simon mocked, "my brother made sure you would never have to work again in your entire life, that you had money to do what you wanted, your art school if you wanted and you have fun playing the baker ?!"
His mocking tone didn't please you, but he didn't give you time to answer him as he was already heading towards the exit, your son still in his arms. Understanding that you had no other choice, you followed him, carrying your bags at arm's length.
"Why until the 24th ?" you asked as you settled into the passenger seat.
"You ask a lot of questions. Hans was right about that," he replied playfully.
"And you never answer my questions. Like him," you retorted sharply, triggering a small laugh from the man.
Simon's villa was every bit as good as the one Hans had left you. It was a huge building, lit by huge windows and whose garden was adorned with a swimming pool and a jacuzzi. Everything exuded luxury from the walls to the ceiling to the furniture that decorated each room and that must have been worth more than a month's salary that you earned when you worked as a souvenir saleswoman.
Simon showed you the room that you would share with your son until the following week. And time passed slowly. Very slowly. Simon was rarely at home, but men stood guard all around the house that you were not allowed to leave under any circumstances, which only fuelled your anxiety. He refused to tell you if you were under threat and you had stopped insisting, tired of being confronted with a wall of silence. But finally, the 24th arrived.
"What a sad Christmas it's going to be," you said to no one but yourself as you watched your son play on Simon's out-of-control carpet, a carpet on which he had spilled your coffee a few hours before to your great satisfaction as you were so annoyed by him.
"Is that so ?" Simon's voice made you jump.
You shrugged without even turning to him.
"I think it's going to be the best Christmas of your lives for both of you," he said laughing.
You finally deigned to look at him. The man looked nothing like Hans physically. He had dark eyes, salt and pepper hair and a nose that was nothing distinctive. On the other hand, he had the same charisma and the same proud and confident posture as his brother.
"I have a gift for you," he added with a playful smile.
"Explanations, I hope," you replied sarcastically.
He chuckled at your cheekiness but he didn't say anything else. Instead, he asked you to take the cell phone that you still weren't allowed to turn on, the things that were particularly important to you, and leave everything else behind.
"Simon," you whispered as he prepared to leave the room, "I understand that you can't tell me anything but... are my parents in danger ? If men are after me, they could hurt my parents," you explained, genuinely worried.
His face softened when he assured you that you didn't have to worry about them and that if you wanted to contact them, there would surely be a way to find a solution later. For the moment, he thought you were on vacation in France with a friend and he received news from you regularly. Or at least he thought that it was you who sent them messages every day when it was actually Simon.
You didn't try to find out more, knowing that it was useless and that you were safer that way. Instead, you did as he asked, gathering the few things that had belonged to Hans and that you carried everywhere with you to remind you, even if you didn't need them. You did the same with your child's things, Simon having told you that you didn't have to worry if you forgot anything because everything you needed would be provided to you in due time.
You were going to leave at night, so you had time to do what you wanted during the day, which was nothing. There wasn't much to do at Simon's place except snooze in front of the TV or read books. Except that the vast majority of his library was in German, much to your dismay. You had thought that a cultured man like him would have a wider selection of books in English or French. Your son was easier to entertain, everything fascinated him in his uncle's big house which was the perfect playground for a child looking for mischief to do with his expensive vases and his Persian rugs most of which now had stains of vomit or other undetermined fluids.
It was only at 11pm that Simon came home to pick you up. You felt a mixture of emotions ranging from fear to annoyance to anger. Yet another day without knowing what was happening in your life. A life over which you had no control since that December 13th. Yet another night where your child was not going to have a proper night, yet another night where your stomach was going to turn and turn, making you sick with worry.
"Believe me, you're going to thank me after tonight," Simon said in a cold voice when you had expressed your displeasure to him.
You snorted, doubting that it was true, yet, once again, you obeyed him not without grumbling, but that was the only difficulty you posed for his greatest relief. Your irritation amused him more than anything else, you were at the end of your tether, so it was easy to get angry and he often teased you on purpose just to see you transform into a little fury, eyes flashing and words as sharp as a blade. It was in those moments, when you came out of your torpor, that he saw what Hans had seen in you and that he understood why his brother had fallen in love with you so easily. If you had not belonged to his brother, he could have fallen in love too.
You rolled for half an hour under the indistinct babbling of your son that Simon maintained by answering imaginary questions, to the great pleasure of his nephew who was listening. You stopped in Schkeuditz. A town you knew all too well. It was where Hans, or at least a tombstone with Hans' name on it, was laid to rest.
"Simon, why are we here ?" you asked when he stopped in front of the cemetery.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he handed you a card. Another stupid Christmas card with reindeer dancing around a sleigh. On the back, coordinates. You arched an eyebrow as he laughed at your expense.
"These are the coordinates of Hans' grave. Go there. Stay there until someone comes to get you, then you'll follow his instructions as well as you've followed mine so far. Are we okay ?"
"No! No! Explain! I'm scared, I don't know what you're getting me into, but I'm not alone, there's a child here with me! Are we in danger? Simon, I need to know..."
"Hush !" he cut you off, "if I didn't trust the person who's coming to meet you, I wouldn't let you and my nephew get out of this car. I know what I'm doing. Don't be afraid, trust me," he said firmly.
You still weren't convinced and tears welled up in your eyes.
"Come on, come on, don't cry. Trust me. All these days spent here in Germany are part of the plan. But I'm not the one who's going to explain all that to you. I don't have time. Now, be a good girl, get out of this car, take your son and go to Hans' grave."
You nodded, swallowing back your tears, and complied. Before leaving the car, Simon had allowed you to finally turn on the cell phone. He told you that you couldn't turn it on before in case you tried to get in touch with your family.
"Why let me do it now ? I could call them right now," you told him defiantly.
"No, you won't. I trust you. You'll wait until you receive further instructions before using it," he told you seriously.
You were now using it to light your way through the tombstones. You finally reached Hans's, one of the only ones that wasn't decorated with flowers. You tried your best not to cry as your son looked around intrigued.
You didn'tYou didn't have to wait long to see a large figure walking towards you. You shone your phone at the stranger, but immediately dropped it. If you hadn't had your son in your arms, you probably would have collapsed to the ground.
The newcomer picked up the phone, a cheeky smile gracing his distinguished face.
"Hallo, mein leibe."
You shivered, and, unable to hold it in any longer, you let out a loud sob.
"Hans !" you managed to say.
"It's me, mein leibe."
"But... What ? The tower ?! I saw you on TV... And Simon... I..." you struggled, unable to string two words together or form a proper sentence, almost crying.
"I'll explain everything to you, but not here, mein leibe, follow me."
You followed him without hesitation, your head swarming with questions. Your son had finally fallen asleep, his head resting on your shoulder and was completely oblivious to what was happening at the moment.
Hans made you get into a spacious Audi. You settled into the front seat, your son still asleep in your arms.
"Hans, it's really you," you whispered as you watched him carefully.
It was him. Despite the scar that crossed his left cheek, he was still the same man with the same black hair and hooked nose that he shared with his son.
"How is that possible ?" you asked as he started the car.
"It's a long story. I know what they said in the press, that I had fallen from the top of the tower, foiled by this McClan, it was a good story, a story that held water. It allowed me to disappear more easily."
"Disappear more easily ? Disappear ?" you repeated, raising your voice.
"Mein leibe, when you steal 600 million dollars it's better to be dead..."
"And me !" you cut him off harshly, "you thought of me ?! Two years Hans ! You left me two years without any news ! I was heartbroken, I wanted to die ! I would have died if it hadn't been for our..." you interrupted yourself, your throat tight with grief.
"Mein leibe, there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't think of you. And I had men to watch over you."
"What ?" you said, stunned.
"You didn't really think that I was going to leave my most precious possession unattended ? Everything was set up with Simon to ensure your safety well before the events at Nakatomi Tower."
You couldn't believe it, shaken by what he had just told you.
"Was your fake fall from the tower part of the plan ?"
Hans remained silent and suddenly hysterical, you started hitting his shoulder with your small, not very thick fist.
"I hate you ! I hate you Hans ! You had no right to do such a thing to me. You say you love me but you're nothing but a liar. You broke my heart, your death, your fake death, almost killed me."
"Mein leibe, it would never be certain. Simon was watching over you in the shadows and he would never have allowed this to happen. But when we found out about your pregnancy, then we knew that you were going to cling to this child like a lifeline. I was relieved, it gave me time to put everything in place for the next stage of our lives."
You stopped pounding his shoulder with your fist to look at him with wide eyes.
"And who says I still want you in my life? "
"Mein leibe, you can lie to yourself but not to me. I can read you like the first day."
"Bastard !" You shouted.
"You can insult me as much as you want if it makes you feel better, but now that I've found you and my son, I'll never let you go again."
You said nothing, your mixed feelings preventing you from thinking rationally. Hans took advantage of your silence to explain to you what happened after Nakatomi Tower. How he had reached a doctor in the pay of people like him to treat him without asking questions. How he had managed to launder the money he had stolen and how, for two years, he had been forgotten by everyone so that he could arrange the future of both of you. Of all three of you.
"Why did you wait two years Hans ? Didn't you want to meet your son ?" you asked in your voice weakened by emotion.
"Of course I did, but I was afraid of putting you in danger. I waited, patiently, for the right moment."
"How did you know it was now ?"
"Simon," he simply said.
You drove all night until you reached France. There, you drove to a small house in the countryside, far from any human existence.
"Can I ?" Hans asked when you wanted to pick up your son and take him inside.
You nodded and watched with affection as he gently lifted his child, his eyes filled with an indefinable emotion. He carried him to the living room and set him down on the couch.
"He's beautiful," Hans murmured.
"He looks just like you."
"I hope he has your soft heart," he replied sincerely.
"And now Hans ?"
"The choice is up to you. Either you decide to stay with me, or you leave. But I won't let you take my son from me."
"What about me ? Do I matter to you or are you just here for him ?"
"[Y/N], mein leibe... I wanted to give you the illusion of having a choice."
You shook your head in disbelief. However, he didn't need to make you feel like you had the right to choose, because you would always choose him no matter what. You and your heart were completely his.
"Where are we going ?"
Hans pulled out a stuffed koala from the inside pocket of his jacket that he had planned to give to your child.
"Australia," he said cheerfully.
"Australia ?"
"You're always cold there, you'll always be warm," he said playfully.
"We're going to have to change identities ?"
"I've already planned it all out."
"I don't have my name to say about my next name ?" You teased, well only half-heartedly.
"You can choose whatever name you like, mein leibe, but your last name will be Marston."
"Marston ?" you repeated stupidly.
"My new identity is Elliott Marston and I thought you'd like to be Elliott's wife."
You froze, your mouth half-open.
"Are you proposing to me ?"
Hans laughed.
"I'm afraid you won't be able to have a conventional princess wedding."
"I never wanted a princess wedding," you said under your breath.
"So ?"
"So ?" You repeated.
"So, do you want to be Mrs. Marston ?"
You nodded frantically.
"Yes ! Hans, yes !"
You threw yourself into his arms and he caught you laughing, kissing the top of your head.
"Well, that's settled Mrs. Marston, we're leaving for Australia in two days to start our new lives."
A whimper caught your attention. A muffled "mommy" came from you and you rushed to your son before he started crying at not seeing you as he woke up in a place completely unfamiliar to him.
Hans watched you interact with the child in the doorway, unsure of what to do. You held out your hand to invite him closer, which he did cautiously so as not to scare the child.
"Hans, let me introduce you to Christopher, your son," you said with emotion.
You had dreamed of this moment for so long, a moment you thought you would never get to experience. Hans sat down next to you and you handed him the child who was watching him with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. Finally, he rested his head against Hans' chest, his thumb in his mouth and you smiled affectionately. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. Hans, although stoic as usual, couldn't stop the pride and love from flooding his usually cold and calculating gaze.
"My son," he whispered as he kissed the top of his head, "I promise to give you the best that life has to offer. You and your mother will never want for anything, you both have my word."
You leaned down to gently kiss the man who had made you come alive the moment you met him, the one who could break you in an instant if he were to disappear.
"Hans, I'm so happy that you're here with us. With Christopher, I was someone again, but without you, I'm nothing."
"Mein leibe, we'll never be apart again, I promise."
He dug into his pocket to pull out a small square box that he handed to you.
"I'm sorry I'm not doing this by the book, but I have a precious package in my hands," he whispered, kissing the top of Christopher's head.
You opened the box to find the most beautiful emerald sitting on a gold band.
"Hans, it's beautiful."
"Not as beautiful as you, mein leibe."
He placed a soft kiss on your lips before setting Christopher down on the ground, who was starting to get agitated, annoyed by the lack of attention towards him. Hans held you close and you let yourself fall against his chest, sighing contentedly as you both watched with affection your son playing with his stuffed koala.
"Merry Christmas, mein leibe," Hans whispered in your ear.
"Merry Christmas Hans," you replied as you snuggled a little closer to him.
"The best of all," Hans whispered, "and I can't wait for the next one in the middle of a beach surrounded by the two loves of my life."
Finally, you thought happily, Christmas miracles really did exist and this year that had started with some missing mirth was finally heralding a bright future.
Chapter 13: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 13 - TO BELONG [B3]
Summary:
Turpin has her now. She is his. But she is still so out of reach.
Chapter Text
December was beginning, the snow seemed to never stop falling and Emily's heart seemed to melt the ice barrier she had erected just after her marriage to Richard.
When she had shyly asked him if she could decorate the manor, he had agreed. He had taken it as a sign that she was starting to consider the manor as her home. He had not bothered to decorate for a long time. He had not organized a reception for years, preferring the calm to the hustle and bustle and he did not see the point in bothering to make a tree and put up the decorations just for himself. In their neighbourhood, the servants had always been allowed to do as they pleased, but he did not want to be reminded of his unwanted solitude.
"Emily, I would like to ask you something," he said at dinner.
She looked up from her soup, one eyebrow raised in a perfect imitation of himself.
"Yes ?"
"A Christmas ball is being held in five days by the Lord and Lady Chamberlain. Will you accompany me ?"
She froze for a moment, not really identifying the different feelings that were running through her. She was flattered, scared, delighted, frightened and tempted, all at once.
"I... I don't know if I'm really ready," she said, thinking back to the deportment lesson this morning that hadn't gone very well.
"You still have four days to get ready. I can ask your governess and tutor to stay longer with you if you want. I'm sure everything will go well."
She hesitated, uncertain.
"You're my wife now. It would be a talking point if you didn't come. And... I'd really like to have you by my side," he added, hoping that would be enough to convince her.
"Fine," she finally murmured.
Richard held back a smile from spreading across his lips.
The next few days, Emily didn’t let up. She worked all morning with her tutor, all afternoon with her governess, and in the evening, she collapsed on her pillow, exhausted.
When the big day arrived, she felt more nervous than ever. Her maid helped her get ready, tightening the corset to make her waist slim before helping her into the dark blue dress that highlighted her green eyes and the sweetness of her angelic face. The maid then adorned her with gold and gemstone jewelry and the Turpin family tiara.
When she finally descended the grand staircase, Richard’s breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful. A true Lady Turpin.
“You look beautiful,” Richard said, holding out his arm to her.
She responded with a shy smile, but he was beaming at having her on his arm. She would be one of the most beautiful women tonight, and she was his.
Throughout the evening, he didn't miss the envious glances. Nor did he miss the criticisms that were sometimes whispered a little too loudly.
"Look at her, that little slut."
"A worthless girl."
"A peasant girl who thinks she's one of us."
With each remark, Emily squeezed Richard's arm a little tighter, but at no point did she falter and no one ever dared to address her directly to hurt her. He would never have dared, not when Richard was there, watching like a hawk.
"A dance, perhaps ?" he suggested when the evening was already well advanced.
"I... I'm afraid I'm clumsy," she replied.
It wasn't true. He knew it, the governess had told him so. She had learned quickly and was a good dancer. But she was afraid of being scrutinized, mocked.
"You have nothing to fear. Not while I'm here," Turpin whispered.
He asked her once more and she accepted. The governess had not lied, she was gracious and Emily even found herself enjoying Richard's hand on her back, an intimacy that made her shiver.
Back home, he suggested Emily share a hot chocolate with him before going up to bed.
"I wouldn't want to risk ruining that pretty dress. Perhaps... perhaps I could change and join you in your office ?"
The proposal seemed like nothing, but the truth was that she was offering him to see her more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. She was offering him to come join him in his office, in his nightgown, in a hushed intimacy where there would be no servants.
"Of course," he replied, suppressing a smile, "I'll have our drinks brought up," he added, calling for a servant.
When she joined him, he found her adorable. Her cheeks were still slightly red from the excitement of the evening.
"Did you find any pleasure in it ?" he asked, handing her one of the two cups.
"I... I would have liked it if I hadn't been so judged," she said, looking down into her head.
"I understand. But you know, even women who come from the same world as them are judged harshly."
"But I was judged even more. Because I am a poor girl. A poor girl who caught the eye of Lord Richard Turpin."
"To the great delight of the said Lord Richard Turpin," he replied with a slight smile.
She looked away, embarrassed and touched. She wanted to tell him, to confess, but she didn't dare. Yet, she wanted to, as he had predicted.
Richard also felt his young wife's trouble, but he wouldn't push her. He wouldn't play on her trick, not this time. He would let her come to him, because he felt it, she was already less out of reach than at the beginning.
The days passed, the winter was getting more biting, and slowly but surely, it was winning her over. Richard spent more time with her. The hot chocolate in the evening had become a ritual between them, the readings moments of sharing, the meals moments of discovery and the walks in the gardens moments to be together in silence.
Emily was also more smiling, more fulfilled, he could see it, and subconsciously, she regularly sought his company, finding excuses to join him in his office when he was working late.
As they both crossed the living room to settle down, he with his newspaper, she with a book, she tripped on the carpet and with an almost unconscious reflex, he quickly steadied her, preventing her from collapsing to the floor.
"Thanks for catching me," she said with a soft laugh.
"Always. Emily... I know I'm not the man you would have chosen. I know I forced things. But every day with you is a gift, even if you were never to love me as I love you."
Unnerved, she felt her entire being electrify at his words. It was at that precise moment that she knew. She had fallen in love with him.
December 24th. A day Richard had not waited for in a long time. As a child, it was the only day of the year when his parents didn't parade from ball to ball. The only day when he and his sisters were allowed to stay with them in the grand salon until midnight to open presents.
But it had been a long time since anyone had given him presents and these days, Richard stayed up far too often until late at night.
But this time, it was different. Emily was with him. They had shared a simple meal but it hadn't seemed to bother her.
"I'll be back soon," she told him when he asked if she had finished her dessert so they could join him in the living room.
Surprised, he had let her slip away. Settled on the large red velvet sofa, he was waiting for her. He had selected a cheerful book. It was Christmas Eve after all.
She came back downstairs with a small package in her hands that she handed to him, beaming.
"It's a small gift. It doesn't really count since I bought it with your money, but the gesture counts, right ?"
Richard looked at the package with suppressed emotion. It had been a long time since he had been given anything.
"And the gesture is greatly appreciated," he said in his deep voice.
Inside were silver cufflinks in the shape of a shamrock.
"The shamrock is lucky in Ireland," she told him with the sweetest smile he had ever seen.
"It's beautiful, Emily."
He meant it. This simple gift was more than just a cufflink. He could reach it. He adjusted them right away, then admired them in the candlelight.
"Beautiful," he said as he stood up.
"Since you've decided it's time for presents, I have one for you too."
He handed her a rectangular box, which she opened carefully. Inside was a silk shawl and another, smaller rectangular box. When she opened it, she discovered a magnificent diamond set.
"It's too much," she whispered, "the shawl was more than enough."
"Nothing is too much for you."
She looked at him with emotion and her heart raced once more. She loved him. She had realized it on the day of the ball and it was high time she gave him what he had been waiting for so patiently.
"Richard," she began, her heart pounding.
"Yes ?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"I... I was wrong. About you. About everything. I'm happy here. With you. Because of you. I... I fell in love with you, Richard."
The joy that invaded Richard was so strong that he thought his heart would stop. Or jump out of his chest.
He leaned down slowly, and cautiously, his lips rested on hers, at first gently, then possessively.
"You make me the happiest of men," he whispered close to her ear.
"Make me yours," she said back.
Without being asked twice, he lifted her up with a smooth gesture and carried her to his room, his domain that he hoped would become theirs. And as the bell towers announced December 25th, in the Turpin household, nothing mattered but the intimacy of the moment when Richard fullyand irremediably Emily his.
In the early morning, he held her close to him. She was wearing his nightshirt, much too big for her, while he was shirtless and only a pair of night pants that he had put on in the early morning to go get breakfast.
He gently stroked her cheek until her eyelids fluttered.
"Good morning," she whispered.
"Good morning," he said, giving her the biggest smile she had ever seen.
He helped her sit on the cushions and handed her a plate of fruit, picking at one as he passed.
"This is the first Christmas in a long time that I haven't felt lonely," he said, looking at her tenderly.
"Because you're not alone anymore," she replied, kissing him on the cheek.
"You're my best gift, Emily," Richard said, his voice thick with emotion.
"And you're mine."
She set the fruit plate on the nightstand and snuggled up to him. He closed his arms around her and for the first time in a long time, they both felt exactly where they were supposed to be.
"This is the beginning of a new life," he told her, kissing her forehead.
"I'm happy to be yours," she whispered sincerely.
"You're not mine. I'm yours. And I've never been happier to belong to someone."
She held him a little tighter and for the first time in a long time, The Death's Judge felt that unfamiliar feeling of happiness mixed with a love so strong that he knew for her, he could move mountains. For her, he would be better. For her, because he belonged to her.
Chapter 14: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 14 - DECEPTIVE KINDNESS [C1]
Summary:
She tried to escape her arranged marriage, but she found herself trapped with Elliott. Can she trust him ?
Chapter Text
When you were told you were getting married to Armand de Mont-Alban, you ran away. You never would have believed your father would offer your hand to another without asking you. You had always been his little princess, the one he let everything go. But apparently, not this time. You had some tantrum, threatened to throw yourself into the sea, but your father wouldn't listen. On the contrary, he had threatened to lock you in your room until the wedding day if you continued to make him go gray.
So, without hesitation, and with the discreet but kind help of your mother, you had fled Sidney. Your mother had given you the money she had saved up for years to help you join your uncle, his brother, in the Outback.
You had taken your business with you, the bare necessities, and you had joined the stagecoach that would take you to Adelaide. From there, another stagecoach would take you to Alice Springs. And finally, your cousin's husband would help you reach your uncle's house in the north.
At least, that was the plan, because once you arrived in Alice Springs, you learned that your cousin and her husband had left town for Katherine almost a month ago. The letter announcing it must have gotten lost, but whatever the case, you found yourself spending more than you had planned to be able to sleep. You had hesitated to leave again. The town needed waitresses and although you were not used to manual labor, anything was good to escape. Except that your father would come to get you there, you were sure of it and here, no one would protect you.
So, after talking to a merchant and giving him the rest of your money, you had managed to find yourself in a cart full of pigs to reach the town where your uncle lived. But honestly, pigs were worth much more than your fiancé.
Armand was a cold man. He came from a rich family, richer than yours, who had made their fortune in sheep's wool, then later in breeding prestigious horses. His father was a governor and his mother came from a long line of French aristocrats. If his mother was mannered, she was also very pleasant although she often lacked judgment about her son and even more so on the question of the aborigines.
His father was a rather pleasant man, always with a joke and everything seemed to interest him. But Armand... Armand had inherited a hot-tempered character, amplified by the fact that as a child, his mother had never refused him anything. And when he couldn't get obedience with a snap of his fingers, he used his hands.
After days and days of a hellish journey, you had finally arrived at your uncle's. The initial surprise he had when he saw you, all disheveled, your beautiful clothes rumpled and smelling of manure, evaporated to give way to a dull anger when you explained to him the reasons for your presence.
"Uncle, maybe you could have the marriage annulled. You are influential," you begged him, tears in your eyes.
Your uncle was probably one of the richest men in northern Australia. First thanks to his work, later thanks to the inheritance from his parents. Your poor mother had not been able to have anything of this inheritance and all the estates, jewels and bank account that was in the United Kingdom had returned to your uncle. A good sport, he had shared them with your mother and you too at the same time. But today, for the first time, you saw in this wealth a power that could help you get out of this arranged marriage that you did not want.
"I'm going to go to Sydney, see your father and this Mont-Alban. The father might be able to be convinced to abandon this union."
"Am I going to have to stay here alone ?" you asked him without even trying to hide your apprehension.
"No. I have a partner who is also a good friend. I'll explain the situation to him and I'm sure he'll let you stay with him while I'm gone. He's a cattle rancher who has influence here in the region. You'll be safe with him. But, [Y/N], please avoid being too quick-witted with him and above all, don't tell him your opinions on the aborigines. He's..."
"I get it," you grumbled, rolling your eyes.
"He's really smart, but his opinion on the aboriginal issue..."
"Is biased because despite his great intelligence, he's a bit of an idiot ?" you answered seriously.
"Yes, well, avoid the question with him, please."
You agreed without adding anything, already knowing that you were going to hate him. But it wasn't like you had a better solution, so you couldn't be ungrateful.
Your uncle had had no trouble getting Elliott to agree to you being under his protection. A nice, well-filled envelope and the promise that he would be given priority for the sale of his cattle had been enough. Elliott was his friend, but he was aa skilled negotiator and your uncle respected that.
"This is my niece," he said as he helped you off the cart."
"This is my niece, [Y/N]," your uncle introduced you.
"Mr. Marston, I'm delighted," you said politely.
Elliott snickered and you did your best not to make a scathing remark at him. In his eyes, you were indeed a well-bred little rich girl who had never known a single minute of work. And he was right. But he was wrong when he thought you must be a little prig used to ordering and getting things done.
"No sir here, sir, that was my father. I'm Elliott," he finally said before taking the suitcase that your uncle had just taken off the cart. "I'll show you to your room."
Elliott's imposing stature, mixed with his dark eyes and that mustache that gave him the air of a man of high society, impressed you right away. He made you nervous, but there was no way he would realize it.
You walked through the house which was beautiful, clearly demonstrating the man's wealth, even if it was far from the opulence of your own home. However, you did not mark the servant. Or rather the slave. An aboriginal. You clenched your fists, but true to your promise, you said nothing.
"Here is your room. It is the coolest in the house, even if it will be stifling most of the time. If you need a bath, Kunkurra is here for that."
He put your suitcase on the floor and left without another word. You settled in comfortably, thanking Kunkurra who seemed surprised but said nothing. Deep down, you hoped that this cohabitation would go well. After all, your uncle trusted this Elliott.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
You couldn't be more wrong. You couldn't stand him. Elliott. He got on your nerves. He was arrogant, full of himself and racist. He didn't share any of your values and when he twirled his gun between his fingers like an Appalachian cowboy, you imagined him shooting himself in the foot and it amused you immensely.
You tried to eat before he finished his work so as not to have to share his table and you avoided being in the same room as him as much as possible. In truth, you spent most of your time reading and sometimes helping Kunkurra.
The slave had been surprised the first time you helped him with the dishes, but he hadn't said anything. You weren't like the other people on the estate. He liked you.
That night, however, you couldn't avoid Elliott who had caught you talking to his horse. He had been touched by this gentleness that wasn't apparent but seemed to be your true nature. He had then asked you if you would have dinner with him and you hadn't dared to say no.
All evening, he had asked you questions that were more than just polite. They were too specific. It was a little too much about your family's money too.
"Being a well-born girl, life must have been easier," he remarked as he cut his steak.
"It probably was. Until now," you replied without looking up from your own plate.
"You always got what you wanted, right ? It must be a change for you to play servant alongside Kunkurra. Washing plates is probably not something you did often at your parents' house."
You blushed slightly at his last sentence. You didn't know he had noticed you helping his slave.
"Indeed, I have rarely washed dishes in my life. But I have never desired an arranged marriage."
"With a rich man. Enough to have even more servants and to ensure you never break a nail."
"At least our servants are paid !" you spat, suddenly raising your head.
Elliott, for the first time since you arrived, saw something other than melancholy in your eyes. There was a fire under there, a bright fire that was ready to burn all of Australia.
"You men are all the same," you finally said, "to believe that obedience is better than happiness."
"I never said that," Elliott replied more quietly than he expected, "and don't be so quick to judge all men based on the ones you've known so far. This fiancé may not be so terrible after all."
"The first time he met me, he called me a 'mare to tame' but also that he would be happy to do it. Judge for yourself, Elliott."
After that, a heavy silence ensued and when you had finished your plate, it was without shame that you helped Kunkurra clean up the kitchen.
After that evening, you no longer avoided Elliott. You stood up to him, answered him back in kind and you weren't afraid to challenge him. And he liked it. No one had ever dared to speak to him the way you did, much less a woman, but you, you weren't afraid to speak your mind. You were different from the cocky little Lady he had imagined. In fact, you were even interesting. Sometimes.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Knock, knock, knock.
...
Knock, knock, knock.
...
Knock, knock, knock.
The door flew open, revealing a shirtless Elliott and for a moment, you couldn't take your eyes off his muscular torso. A scar on his stomach slightly intrigued you, but when his baritone voice started growling at you, you quickly came to your senses.
"FOR GOD'S SAKE, WOMAN, IT'S..." he turned to glance at the clock on his dresser, "it's one in the morning!"
"There's something out there," you said quietly.
A noise had woken you up and trembling but determined you had gone to knock on Elliott's bedroom door.
"Maybe one of the men needed to pee," he replied, suppressing a yawn.
"It wasn't a man peeing," you replied a little frustrated that he didn't take you seriously.
"We're in Australia, my dear. We're surrounded by wild animals. They exist here, far from your nice houses in the city," he said without hiding his exasperation.
"What if it wasn't an animal?" you insisted, not reassured.
He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes before finally returning to his room in a theatrical gesture to come out a second later with his gun.
"You never do anything without it?" you asked following him.
"My dear, if it's a thief, you'll be glad I took my gun."
He crossed the living room with you on his heels. Your hand was almost touching his bare back, you were so afraid of being left alone. When he opened the front door, he made a gesture to you to keep quiet. You nodded while continuing to follow him on tiptoe.
Arriving on the porch of the house, he fired once in the air, making you jump. It was then that an animal on which the moon made its light dance, making its red fur shine a little more, ran away at full speed.
"A dingo," Elliott said, taking your arm to lead you into the house. "And now that we're awake, how about some tea?"
Without waiting for your answer, he set to work. You refrained from telling him that you were surprised that he was able to do something domestic without his slave. Instead, you thanked him in a low whisper.
"Thanks for not laughing."
"Oh, believe me, that was hard," he replied with a small smirk.
You each sat down in an armchair, but Elliott didn't miss your gaze that often lingered on his bookshelf.
"You can borrow some if you want."
"Thanks," you replied a little surprised, "I like books. They don't lie."
Elliott stood up with the grace of a feline and pulled out a large volume that hadn't been read in a long time to hand it to him.
"This one is full of lies. A story of adventure in the wild west."
"If this story allows you to escape for a moment and forget about reality, then it's not a lie," you replied as you took the book.
Elliott looked at you, really looked at you for the first time. And for the first time, he began to doubt what he had set out to do.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Mr. [Y/S],
Your brother-in-law has asked me to watch over your daughter while he attempts to cancel this marriage you have arranged for her.
You and I, I am sure, are pragmatic men. I understand the importance of this union to your family.
I will protect your daughter as I promised, until you come to collect her to offer her to her fiancé.
As a man of the world, I am sure you understand that a service, especially one as great as watching over your most precious possession, cannot go unrewarded.
I would very much like to expand my business with Sidney and the surrounding towns and I am certain that you and I, Mr. [Y/S] could help each other.
In the meantime, please accept the assurance of my highest regards.
Kind Regards,
Elliott Marston."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Do you remember London ?" Elliott asked you as you helped him feed the horses.
"No. I was four when we left, my whole life is in Australia," you answered with a hint of nostalgia.
You and Elliott were talking more and more. In fact, you would almost dare to call him a friend. He was witty and he listened to your opinion. You often argued about the Aboriginal cause, but one night he surprised you by questioning your fierce need to defend them without prejudice or mockery.
"Why does your father force you to marry this man if you are his little pet as you say ?"
"For the sake of propriety. We are always a bit English, no matter where we are, aren't we?"
Elliott shrugged his shoulders
"My father was Irish. But my parents died when I was very young..."
That's when he explained to you. Everything. And you understood why he harboured such hatred towards the Aborigines. You didn't excuse him for what he did to them in return, but you thought that maybe all was not lost for this man. He could be fixed. He could learn. He could become better.
"My father always kept the values of the United Kingdom. He was strict when I was a child, but always fair and loving. My mother, she... well, I guess she always behaved like a good wife," you explained, stroking Elliott's stallion.
"Everything you refuse to be, right ?" he questioned without contempt.
"We are capable of being more than an obedient wife, Elliott. We can learn, we can do the same things as men. We are no less intelligent than you, and my friend Cassandra would be as capable as some of your men here. But there are very few men who are willing to see our values beyond tradition."
Elliott said nothing because he knew he thought like your father. Yet he found himself noticing your subtlety, your intelligence, but also your resilience and the way you had of hiding your vulnerability under a facade of calm and restraint.
And he was starting to blame himself. He thought about that letter he had written just after you arrived with the intention of posting it as soon as he went to town to buy food. But he was no longer so sure he wanted to do it.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
If only. If only he had hidden it better. If only you hadn't been snooping around after your bath while he was making you dinner, proud to introduce you to one of his specialties. If only he had burned that letter as soon as he understood what that tightness in his chest meant when he saw you.
Then, maybe you would have never known that his kindness had been, at least at first, just a deceptive kindness.
Chapter 15: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 15 - DECORATIVE OBSESSION
Summary:
When Sinclair get involved in a Christmas contest, he becomes a little bit too enthusiastic about it.
Chapter Text
Sinclair didn't know what had gone through his head when he'd agreed to enter this stupid Christmas decorating contest.
It had been Dame Aurora De Longrantfirth's idea to liven up the posh neighbourhood they lived in. Sinclair had always loved Christmas, but he'd always been far too busy with his work to enter such contests, but the old woman had insisted, saying he was the sleaziest neighbour on the street, and Sinclair's pride had been stung.
Except that he'd quickly gotten a taste for it, so much so that he'd decided to beat his neighbour Andrew, an annoying lawyer who fancied himself a poet in his spare time. Sinclair's plan was simple: Andrew would recreate the North Pole, create a Christmas at Versailles for him. Grand chandeliers, gilded mirrors, swans carved from ice, nothing would be too beautiful to decorate his estate.
Except that it made him a little... hysterical. The assistant he had hired couldn't take it anymore. Nothing was too good, too extravagant for Sinclair who applied the principle that money was made to spend.
Except that he didn't really know what he wanted and made the poor man run around in all directions, assembling, disassembling, reassembling decorations all day long.
"What do you mean, you're resigning ?" Sinclair asked, his face defeated.
"Mr Bryant, you are an intelligent man, I am sure you know the definition of the word resign. I am leaving ! I want nothing more to do with Christmas decorations. Besides, I call off Christmas at my house for this year !
This had come about after an argument about the colour of the curtains. He had been going around in circles for part of the afternoon before calling Peter, a work colleague who was as useless as he was with both decoration and electronics, but he had the advantage of having a wife who was up to date and interested in interior design.
She immediately advised him to take a look at a small vintage shop in central London. The owner had very good taste according to her since she had helped him redecorate the living room.
Although he was not convinced by the idea of entrusting the decorations of his house to a vintage clothing seller who seemed to have no real qualifications as a decorator, he went to see her.
"Can I help you?" she asked as she watched him pace around his small shop.
The place wasn’t very big, but it was bright, everything seemed to be in its right place and the walls had been tastefully painted.
“Are you the owner ?” Sinclair asked as he turned to her.
“Yes. Well, the tenant, but everything in the store is mine. Can I help you ?” she asked again with a warm smile.
Sinclair swallowed hard. It had been a long time since a woman had smiled at him like that, without even knowing who he was and what he had to offer.
“Carla Davis said you could help me,” he began hesitantly.
The young woman’s eyes lit up at the name Carla.
“Oh, she’s a regular customer. What can I do for you ?”
Sinclair told her what he had in mind in a few words, but she seemed to have understood what he wanted.
"Come back tomorrow, I'll show you some sketches."
"Very well, thank you, miss..."
"Anna, Anna Morton," she said, still smiling broadly, revealing two crooked front teeth.
"Sinclair, Sinclair Bryant, nice to meet you," he said, holding out his hand.
She shook it without hesitation. Her hand was small and cold compared to Sinclair's, but the electric shock he felt when he grabbed it had stunned him. He hadn't felt that way since... ever, actually.
When he returned to the store the next day, the sketches were ready as promised.
"It's... minimalist," he said cautiously.
"We can modify it, of course. It would be easier if I could see your house."
"Well, let's do it."
"Now ?"
"Oh, sure ! The store. I'll be back at closing time and take you ?"
Anna hesitated. She didn't know anything about this Sinclair after all and she'd read enough detective novels to know that it was a bad idea to get into a car with a stranger. On the other hand, he was sent by Carla and while they weren't exactly friends, she trusted her enough to believe that she wouldn't send him a raving lunatic for a customer.
"Well, be back in three hours."
With a clock like a Swiss cuckoo, Sinclair was there for closing time. He bundled her into his car and drove through the traffic and rain to his estate.
"It's a bit much for one person all by himself," Sinclair said, a little embarrassed by Anna's silence as she stared at the mansion.
"If you're comfortable there, that's enough, right ?"
"Exactly," Sinclair enthused, "according to studies, feeling at home is to have it all with our ability to create intimate spaces where we feel good and where we can build ourselves, nothing else," he added with a smile.
"And you have that here ?" the young woman asked sincerely.
Sinclair's smile faded slightly. He had that. Before. Before the divorce.
Understanding that she had perhaps touched a sensitive chord, Anna preferred to change the subject by asking him if he intended to let her in or if he was just waiting for her to lose her toes.
"Oh, of course, the temperatures are negative. They're predicting frost for tonight," he said as he opened the door for her.
He showed her the different areas to decorate while mentioning the dangers of global warming, but Anna interrupted him with a blunt and frank remark that disconcerted Sinclair.
"It looks like your living room swallowed a jewellery store..."
"What ?! These gilts are exceptional pieces," he said, slightly offended.
"Everything screams opulence, exceptionality, grandiose. You are most certainly doing the same thing as your neighbour: a display of your money. Nothing screams welcome and warmth, however."
Sinclair was speechless. If only he had known that this was only the beginning.
Throughout the two weeks, the arguments between him and Anna were constant.
"You are supposed to help me, not annoy me," he said one afternoon when she refused to take his advice about a Rococo vase that he thought was lovely but she considered abominable.
"I listen to you, I never stop listening to you. But instead of giving me decorating advice, keep explaining to me why green paint killed our ancestors and why your great-great-great-great grandmother had yellow skin. I didn't quite get the whole powder compact thing."
She frustrated him, but she also intrigued him. She listened to him when he talked about something other than decorating, most of the time with interest. She even asked pertinent questions when he was used to people ignoring him.
"Why didn't you study art ? Or decorating ? Or even fashion ?" Sinclair suddenly asked.
"I had been accepted to the Royal College of Art. But at the time, my mother fell ill and my father was about to lose his job due to staff restructuring. He wasn't sure he'd find a job again given his age, so I gave it up."
"That's a shame," Sinclair murmured.
"That's the truth. Sometimes you have to put your dreams aside."
She said it without sounding bitter, but Sinclair was sure she was hiding her feelings deep down.
"You never thought about going back to school ?"
"I'm too old for that now."
"Nonsense ! It's never too late to start over or even begin. Besides, statistically, it's between the ages of 30 and 40 that many women start studying at university and some even decide to start over to retrain."
She smiled, a sweet smile that made Sinclair melt.
"That's nice Sinclair, but... you need money to study and I have my store. I know I could work and study at the same time, but honestly, I don't know if I'd have the courage."
He nodded. He could understand. Not everyone had a background like his, parents who were financially secure enough to be able to afford to try, fail, or even not give 100%, even if that had never been the case for him. Sinclair had always been a brilliant student, aware of how lucky he was to be able to study.
"Sinclair, what do you want to do with this chandelier?" Anna asked, seeing the gigantic crystal chandelier that proudly sat on the floor of the veranda.
"Put it on the ceiling of the living room of course."
"It's going to be too heavy."
"The salesman assured me it would be perfect."
"And I'm telling you it's going to be too heavy. We've already created a swampy atmosphere with your fountain idea that overflowed and flooded your floor, let's try not to destroy the ceiling."
"It'll hold, I tell you."
The next day, Sinclair and the workers who had installed the chandelier were forced to admit that she was right. When Anna had arrived that morning, the four men were staring at the ceiling with a stupid look.
"You cracked your ceiling, Sinclair," she remarked.
"I saw it, thank you," he grumbled.
"Get someone to come right away so that the crack doesn't get worse and to make sure there's no danger. The only thing missing is the sky falling on our heads."
Seeing how affected he seemed, you had agreed to have dinner with him. The meal had been simple, topped off with a dessert that Sinclair and you devoured down to the last crumb.
"I've always dreamed of greatness. My parents, especially my mother, always said that's what defined us," he confided, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
"Defining yourself by which meaning ?" Anna asked, sipping her tea.
"No idea. It sounds snobby when you say it like that, but I promise you that my mother is one of the kindest and most respectful women I know. She grew up poor. She didn't know money and luxury until she married my father. I think that's why she always did too much and she passed that little flaw on to me."
Anna placed her hand on his with an indulgent smile. Sinclair's vulnerability had taken her by surprise, but she liked this new side of him, less sure of himself.
"You don't need to impress anyone, Sinclair. You're a good, cultured, kind person. Show it with simplicity."
He watched her, surprised by what she had just said, but also strangely relieved. He turned his hand so that he could close it on Anna's, his thumb caressing the back of her hand.
"It's just a competition, Sinclair," she added softly.
"You're right," he said, "but that's how I am, I always put too much heart into everything I undertake."
"It's a quality."
At least that's what she had thought until the day before the competition. Everything was perfect, the house was sumptuous, but an argument had come to tarnish all that. He had said unfortunate words that he now regretted having said, but it was too late. He had, without meaning to, insulted her and her talent by reducing it to a lack of diploma. As if pieces of paper told everything about the value and abilities of a no one.
"You don't need me anymore, Sinclair," Anna whispered, disappointed and hurt, "good luck with the contest," she added before leaving.
He had treated her like just another assistant, someone of no importance, and he felt so bad about it. He couldn't erase from his memory the hurt look in Anna's eyes, the tears she had held back.
All night, he had lain awake staring at the house. And now, a few hours before the contest began, he wasn't so sure he wanted to enter. Every detail, down to the tiniest sprig of mistletoe, reminded him of Anna. She had, in just two weeks, given him so much more than creative ideas. She had crept into him, slowly but surely and now, and he wanted to know if she could be more than the little vintage clothes saleswoman from Islington. Yes, maybe she could be a little saleswoman, but also his.
"What does winning matter if she's not there to celebrate with you Bryant ?!"
Without waiting, he grabbed his car keys and drove away, leaving all the lights out behind him. Without her, there was no joy, no warmth, neither in the house nor in him.
Except he had no idea where she lived or when that Christmas Eve the store was closed.
"Damn, Sinclair, what an idiot !"
"I couldn't have said it better myself," a voice said behind him.
He turned around with a start. There she was, behind him. He had to pinch himself just to make sure it wasn't a mirage created by his mind.
"What are you doing here ?" they asked in unison.
"I forgot my mother's Christmas present," Anna said with a small laugh, "and you ?"
"I...I wanted to see you."
"See me ?"
"Yeah... about our fight... I'm sorry Anna. I'm an idiot. I... I was stressed..."
"Yeah, I know, you put a lot of effort into the contest," she said indulgently.
"No, well yeah but it wasn't really the contest... I... I had a messy divorce and I was hoping... I don't really know what I was hoping for. Maybe to prove to myself that I don't always destroy everything... But I failed."
"You didn't destroy anything Sinclair. We just had a fight. But the fact that you're here to apologize..." she trailed off, her eyes wide, "Sinclair! The contest! What are you doing here ?!"
"Who cares about the contest. I don't care. None of this makes any sense. Anna, you were able to see the real me, you were able to see beyond appearances and... For the first time in a long time, I'm not afraid to let someone into my life. If... If you want to try and give us a chance of course."
Anna looked at him with wide eyes.
"You dropped the contest just to tell me that ?"
"Yes. Anna, please, let's give each other a chance," Sinclair said, grabbing her hand.
"Because there's already an us?" she said, barely hiding her smile.
"It could start now, if you want."
She moved closer to him, placing a hand on his chest.
"Would you like to come spend Christmas Eve with my parents and me ?"
"Are you already planning on introducing me to your parents?" he said with a smile so bright it could have made the sun jealous.
"Don't push your room. I'll introduce you as a friend. A good friend who had no one to spend Christmas with. And if you're good, then maybe that before midnight, there will be an us."
"That means you're my girlfriend," Sinclair said, grinning like a stupid teenager.
"That means, Mr. Bryant, that together I think we could balance each other out very well."
Without warning, Sinclair leaned in to kiss her, a soft, almost hesitant kiss. And as they walked away hand in hand, Sinclair couldn't help but think that his decorative obsession had been a good thing after all.
Chapter 16: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 16 - THOUGHTFUL GIFTS [D1]
Summary:
Turpin has her now. She is his. But she is still so out of reach.
Chapter Text
Sybil Catherine Morton. That was her name. Richard knew it because he had noticed it long before his father had allowed him to open his small workshop near the courthouse. He had to walk past it every morning when he came to work, and strangely enough, Richard had been walking to work more often than usual recently.
But he had noticed it for much longer. She had been fifteen, the first time he had seen her and known. He had been nearly thirty at the time. Not an obstacle, certainly, but he was building his career far beyond what his parents could have dreamed for him and he wanted a woman by his side, not a child. So he had decided to wait. Richard Turpin was a patient man.
At the time, he was not yet the High Judge that all London feared. He was still only a young magistrate seeking recognition. He was already arrogant and self-assured, of course, traits that went with the wealth and power of his name and the titles of his father, Lord Alexander Turpin, but he also had ambitions to rise far beyond what his father had accomplished. He had never been anything more than a lawyer, a gifted one, but one who had mostly benefited from the family inheritance only to almost lose it all if it hadn't been for his mother's good connections... in every sense of the word.
He still remembered that first time as if it were yesterday. He was walking past the entrance to the family workshop in the slums of Kensington, the ones that tarnished the area's reputation for nobility. There she was, her long brown hair tied in a messy bun that flew around her head in the wind, helping her mother carry a roll of fabric. She wore a modest dress of pastel blue, and had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. She also had that air of dignity despite her modest circumstances, that of people who know they are worth much more but that they must make do with the cards that life has dealt them.
What he had felt that day, he had had to run away from it. Never would his parents have tolerated their son, their only male heir, compromising himself with a young girl. Although it was not really his age that was the problem, not when his sister had been married at 16 to the Earl of Inverness. It was his social status. So, he had deeply fled the feelings he had felt that day for the first time and he had turned away to continue his ascension. But he had never forgotten her.
His father had introduced him to many young women, ordering him to marry to perpetuate the Turpin line, sometimes doing it in his own way, thinking that he could still make his son obey fear as when he was a helpless child who could count only on the kindness of the servants who had attached themselves to him to nurse his bruised back.
Astonishingly, and despite her great beauty, Sybil was still unmarried. He knew that she had had proposals, three to be exact, but they had refused them, to his great pleasure.
Sybil's mother had died of cholera eight years earlier, and with her had ended the business that her husband had allowed her to practice even after their marriage. Her father, on the other hand, was a modest grocer in decline and who, at the time, was covered in debt. The sale of the workshop had allowed him to pay them off and with the rest, out of love for this only daughter who seemed to refuse to follow the traditional path of marriage, he had allowed her to take over this old shop that had been unoccupied for years. A crazy bet for such a poor man, an act of love that could have led to his downfall, him and his daughter, but against all odds, he had been right to believe in her.
Sybil had her little success thanks to a rare talent: she knew how to embroider any thread, even the most refined. She was also capable of adding her personal touch, of letting her creativity speak, which made her pieces unique.
Thirteen years. It had taken thirteen years for destiny to put her back on her path and for the image of Sybil Morton to come back to hit him like a tornado devastating everything in its path, and leaving him empty. Empty of love.
Now powerful, influential and feared, he no longer had to worry about the opinion of his parents, from whom he had completely freed himself, not without taking pride in repaying every last cent of what his father had paid for his education so as to never owe him anything.
That day, fate struck again when Richard's judge's robe tore a few hours before an important trial. He couldn't appear neglected, what would that say about him?
So he entered the small workshop with a mixture of curiosity and determination.
"Hello, can I help you ?" a soft voice asked.
It was her. She turned to him with a small, friendly smile.
"Do you think you can fix this quickly ?" he asked, showing her the tear, "I have a trial in less than an hour, and my other dress is being washed."
She came closer to examine the damage as he held his breath.
"Yes, of course. I can be finished before your trial, you can come back in..."
"I'll wait here, if you don't mind," he interrupted her in his firm voice, the same one he used in his courtroom... and in his everyday life normally.
"Alright, you can sit there," she said, showing him a chair.
She settled down and, meticulously, began her work. Her fingers worked with precision, hypnotizing Richard who tried to forget the slight pang in his heart he had felt when he entered. She had not recognized him. But how could she have when at the time, she had certainly looked at him as she looked at any anonymous passerby?
"And there you have it," she said after twenty minutes. Let me know if that's okay with you."
She had done a wonderful job, you couldn't even see the repair.
"How much do I owe you ?" Richard asked, hoping that this would give him a good excuse to come back and pay her.
"It's free the first time," she said, smiling at him.
"Then you're not a very good saleswoman," he pointed out.
She shrugged as if she didn't care.
"It's my pleasure."
"Well, the pleasure's mine, miss..." he said, pretending not to know her name.
"Morton. Sybil Morton."
"Pleased to meet you, I'm Richard Turpin," he replied, bowing.
That's when he saw her, the little twinkle of recognition in her eyes. She wasn't entirely ignorant. She might not have known that he was the man who had noticed her thirteen years ago, but she knew his reputation.
"Oh no, I've just spoiled the moment," he said theatrically, not meaning a word of it.
"You haven't spoiled anything. I'm sorry if I've offended you, sir, my father always says I have a bad habit of not being able to hide my emotions."
"I'm not offended at all, miss. A young woman who doesn't hide her feelings... how refreshing."
He bowed again before leaving.
The next day he returned with a silk shawl of rare quality.
"Miss Morton, I have a gift for you," he said, handing her the shawl.
"A gift, but what for ?" she wondered.
"For allowing me to enter my court without looking like a penniless mongrel."
"But I told you it was on the house," she protested.
"And that's why I didn't bring you any money," he replied with a sly smile.
"I can't accept it, it's too much !"
"You can and you must. No one refuses a gift from Richard Turpin," he said more softly.
She stroked the stole with her fingertips before murmuring a shy thank you.
Two days later, Richard reappeared in the workshop.
"Another dress to mend ?" she asked him without looking up from her work.
"No. I'm looking for a gift. For a lady."
"Oh, and what are her tastes ?"
Richard hesitated. What were Sybil's tastes ? Because the truth was, he had only come to see her and to do so he needed an excuse.
"Well, Miss Morton, I'm not very versed in women's affairs. I trust you."
She stood up, carefully putting down her work, and went over to some embroidered handkerchiefs.
"These embroideries are very much in demand by the ladies," she said, handing him several designs.
"Are you the one who makes them ?" Richard asked, genuinely impressed.
"Yes. These handkerchiefs have unwittingly become my signature," she said with a note of pride in her voice.
"And these are real gold thread ?"
She nodded in confirmation.
"I'll take this one," he said, selecting a handkerchief with a floral pattern and a gold threaded border.
He watched her wrap it up carefully before handing it to him.
"That's far too much, sir," she said when he paid her.
"Miss Morton, I imagine you are not aware that the price of gold thread has increased in recent days. All work deserves a salary and yours is of quality in addition to using refined products.
"Oh... thank you then."
Richard left smiling, unwrapping the handkerchief to put it in his jacket pocket. Apparently, she did not take care of her orders herself or she would have known he was lying. It must have been her father who took care of everything that had to do with accounting, he guessed.
Over the weeks, Richard found a thousand and one excuses to come back. Always to buy something for triple the price, always watching her furtively.
"Your lady is very lucky," Sybil said one day cautiously.
Richard looked at her so intently that she wondered if she would not have been better off keeping quiet.
"Very much, indeed," he said at last.
"Does she like my work ?"
The question seemed innocent, but years of practice had taught her to read between the lines. She knew, or at least suspected, that he had no lady to whom she could give curtains, handkerchiefs, or woolen stockings.
"Perhaps it is not your work that interests me." and before she could answer, he had disappeared.
Sybil felt a shiver run down her spine. He had confirmed her suspicions in one sentence. She did not know what to think. She knew his terrible reputation, but on the other hand, he seemed kind and amiable, at least to her. She couldn't deny that she felt flattered to have caught the eye of such an important man as he.
She shook her head as if to chase away these thoughts. There could never be anything between them. He was not of the same world. And she had to put some distance between them before rumours started to spread about her. If it were whispered that she was Lord Richard Turpin's mistress, even if it was false, she could well lose her workshop.
When he returned the next day, she greeted him with more coldness, even if it was not really what she wanted, but she had to protect herself.
"Sir, I think you should not come here anymore," she said with calculated coldness.
"Sybil, have I done something to displease you ?" he asked imperturbably.
"I..."
She didn't know what to say. She wasn't really sure of his intentions and she didn't want to embarrass herself. On the other hand, he was the kind of man her father had always told her to be wary of.
"Miss Morton, I think you've seen through me so let's play fair, shall we ?" he said, his penetrating gaze probing her, "I've noticed you for a long time. I know we barely know each other after all, but I know I want you by my side."
"What ? Why ?"
"You're different from the others. You're honest and you're not afraid of me. And I have feelings for you."
"You can't be in love just by walking into my shop a dozen times," she protested outraged.
"Miss Morton, I've done more than just come into your shop. We've talked. At length. Whole afternoons sometimes."
She lowered her head, blushing. He was telling the truth, and worse, she had enjoyed his company.
"I respect you, Miss Morton. I respect the beauty your hands create. But I want to be more than just one of your customers."
"Do you want to be friends ?" she asked shyly, knowing full well that wasn't what he wanted.
"I want more. I want you. All of you."
"Lord Turpin," she said with emotion.
Richard recoiled, as if slapped. It was the first time she hadn't called him Sir, and he didn't appreciate the distance she was putting between them by using his title.
"Sybil, I could offer you a life of security. You could continue to sew and make whatever you like without ever having to worry about bankruptcy or financial worries. And you would be protected, respected and...," he hesitated for a second before finally breathing out, "loved."
"I... I am touched, sincerely. By what you just said and by all your thoughtful gifts. I know you always paid me much more than my fabrics were really worth, but... We can't."
"Why not ?"
"We are not from the same world. What will people say ?"
"Let them talk !"
"And I will never know how to behave in your world..."
"You will learn !"
"I am not in love with you," she finally said, sincerely.
Richard sketched a sad smile, but it was still not enough to bring him down.
"You'll learn that too," he said more softly, "we'll get to know each other, tame each other, and in time, love will come."
"What if it never comes ?"
"What if I'm your best chance ?"
She was about to answer, but he held up a hand to stop her.
"Think about it, Sybil. I'm not a patient man. But for you, I'll wait."
Without adding anything, Richard left without looking back, leaving Sybil alone with herself. The conflicting feelings she felt troubled her, and she knew that Richard was right. The proposal he had just made her was a stroke of luck. Few girls of her condition could rise up like that. But fear gripped her. After all, she didn't really know him and his reputation preceded him.
For his part, Richard knew he had planted a seed. Sybil now had food for thought. She would surely discuss it with her father, a man he hoped would be pragmatic and think of his daughter's welfare. And then the paths of Richard William Turpin and Sybil Catherine Morton might meet. And that would be the most precious gift Richard would ever receive.
Chapter 17: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 17 - TRUTHFUL LONGING [D2]
Summary:
Turpin wants her but for once, he wants to do the right thing. He will win her, he knows it, but not by is usual schemes.
Chapter Text
Richard had never been so patient. He waited. Waited. Waited. He would win her. Sybil. She would be his. Not by force but because he would prove to her that he was worthy of her.
He kept a discreet eye on her, especially now that she arrived before the sun had risen and left after nightfall. It was so dangerous for a woman as pretty as she to be alone in the streets of London in the November darkness.
That night, however, he had been held longer than expected in court. The Beadle, his faithful secretary, had the job of keeping watch over her without being seen.
"My lord, my lord !" cried The Beadle, out of breath when he saw Richard.
"What is going on ?" he growled.
He had just come out of an interminable trial and pronounced yet another death sentence. He was exhausted.
"Your friend seems to be wandering down the wrong streets of Whitechapel."
Sybil, that little fool. Richard rushed to his cab, shouting at his driver to get going.
The streets were alive with miscreants and undercover salesmen and there were no streets more dangerous than Whitechapel where men of all ranks were looking for a good night's sleep without being too particular. A face like Sybil would not go unnoticed and what did it matter if she was not a whore ?
"What is she doing here," Richard grumbled to himself.
She was simply here on a delivery. A client to whom she had to return a basket of mended clothes. A high-class prostitute who had a generous patron to send her the best dresses.
As she walked along the uneven pavement of the dark alleys, trying to breathe as little as possible of the stench that seemed to be embedded in her clothes, she heard voices a few steps away from her.
She should have moved on, ignored what she was hearing, but she couldn't. A few meters away from her was a little boy dressed in rags, being manhandled by a drunken man. A little boy she knew from having already offered her something to eat. It was Rufus, the son of a prostitute who often hung around the streets looking for food. He was begging, his pure voice often bringing him precious coins that allowed him to eat one day out of three. The little boy, afraid of being beaten or the small purse he was holding in his hand stolen, backed away before stumbling over a paving stone that stuck out and collapsing to the ground.
The man raised his hand to strike him when Sybil, listening only to her courage, intervened.
"Leave him alone!" she cried, "he hasn't done anything to you, he's just a little boy."
"Mind your own business, my pretty," the man replied without turning around.
Rufus had taken the opportunity to straighten up, but as he tried to slip away, the man caught him by the collar of his torn shirt.
Sybil, without thinking, picked up a stone and threw it at the man's head. Not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to stir up his anger a little more.
"You little bitch ! You're going to get what you want ! You're going to be the most sorry little ass in all of London before dawn breaks !" he shouted.
As he advanced towards her with a threatening step under Rufus's frightened gaze, the sound of hooves was heard. A hackney carriage stopped and time seemed to stand still as the door opened to let in Lord Richard Turpin, the High Judge of London, dressed in his long black coat. His imposing stature, his stern features and his hooked nose seemed even more intimidating under the flickering lights of the street lamps.
"Lord Harshford, if you do not want to know the humiliation of an exile in the Australian colonies, and if you do not want all of London's good society to learn that you are cheating on your wife, a woman of much higher rank than you since she is a marquise, with common whores from the slums, I advise you to return home immediately."
The man hesitated only a fraction of a second before turning around, muttering inaudible insults under Richard’s cold, unreadable gaze.
Sybil, still shivering of fear, approached Rufus to make sure he was okay, offering him a coin and promising that if he came to her shop tomorrow, she would fix his shirt. She then turned back to Richard, her eyes filled with gratitude.
“Thank you, Lord Turpin.”
“You must be more careful, Sybil ! You have courage, but little discernment. You know what he was going to do, don’t you ?”
She shivered more violently. Of course she knew, she wasn’t as naive as she seemed, but she could never forgive herself for letting Rufus get beaten up by a man who thought he was superior to them because of a title and the weight of his safe.
“I’ll take you home," he said in a voice that allowed no contradiction.
"I have to deliver this basket," she said.
Secretly, she hoped he would offer to accompany her to her client's house. Her legs were shaking after the confrontation.
"I can do that, Miss Sybil. Mrs. Rose is working with my mother tonight."
She hesitated, but Richard, without asking, took the basket from her and handed it to Rufus, who faltered slightly under the weight of his load.
"That's settled. Come, I'll take you back."
"I don't know if that's very respectable," she said, wondering what the neighbourhood would say if they saw her getting out of Richard Turpin's cab.
"Miss, my job is to ensure the safety of all the citizens of this city. Yours included. Get in."
She gave in, relieved in spite of herself. She relaxed slightly as she leaned back against the leather seats, the warmth of the carriage making her realize how cold she was.
"That man could have hurt you," he said softly.
"I know, but he was picking on Rufus. He's a good little boy. He's just been unlucky since he was born."
"You're a good person, but this kind of action could get you killed."
"But if we always close our eyes and think only of ourselves, then we can't change the world."
Richard said nothing, but he sketched an imperceptible smile at this idealistic way of thinking. She wasn't wrong, but a woman alone, without resources, couldn't change the world alone, and those who had the power to change it didn't care. Changing the order of things would mean questioning all the values of today's society, values that he himself believed in through his upbringing.
They stopped in front of Sybil's father's small shop. She didn't even ask him how he knew it was her father's shop or that he and she lived upstairs, too tired after the shock of the violent emotions she had felt a little earlier.
As the carriage stopped, Richard reached into his inside pocket before handing Sybil a small purse.
"What is this ?" she asked, taking it.
Her eyes widened as she opened it. There was enough food for a whole month.
"I can't accept this," she said, handing it to Richard.
He gently pushed her hand away.
"This isn't for you, it's for the little boy. You know where to find him."
She thanked him sincerely and accepted his hand as he helped her downstairs.
That night, the two of them lay awake for a long time. Sybil didn't know what to make of Richard, this feared judge who had made advances towards her but had the decency to wait without rushing her. Perhaps behind all his complexity and terrible reputation there was a kind soul. She was beginning to see through the armour and she even found herself imagining what her life could be like if she became Lady Turpin. And unconsciously, she felt a truthful longing.
For his part, Richard, sitting in his worn leather chair in his library, watched the fire slowly die. Sybil haunted his thoughts. She was both gentle and strong, determined and fragile. And the feelings he felt for her resonated like a storm. His truthful longing made him patient, caring and deep down, he even felt the desire to change, to become better, to be part of those who changed things. For her, because he had this truthful longing to make her his, he could become the best version of himself.
Chapter 18: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 18 - SECRET VISITOR
Summary:
You are the daughter of the famous Harry Potter. But the burden of your name and your family is heavy on your shoulders. But a tenebrous potion master has noticed you.
Chapter Text
You didn't particularly like the end of year celebrations. That's why you had asked to stay at Hogwarts this year. Your parents had been disappointed and your mother and grandmother had kept begging you to come back, but you didn't want to.
Being the last born of the Potter family was your burden. James, your eldest, was a real celebrity at Hogwarts. Seeker of the quidditch team, popular with the girls and even with the teachers despite his insolence.
Albus was calmer, more serious. Everyone said that he would accomplish great things like the two wizards whose name he bore.
And then, there was your big sister, Lily. She attracted boys, was intelligent and one of the most popular Gryffindors.
You were the youngest, the little surprise-bonus as your mother called you. You hadn't been planned, but you were loved nonetheless. Except that you always felt a little bit apart, a little bit left out. You had ended up in Hufflepuff, and although your parents assured you that it meant nothing to them, you could see that not being a Gryffindor was like a small burden, but a small burden that you shared with Albus since he himself wasn't a Gryffindor but a Slytherin.
At home, your brothers and sister were always too busy to really take an interest in you. You were just a whisper among all these prestigious people who sat at your table at Christmas. The idea of spending another Christmas alone while being surrounded by people, laughter and conversations in which you never found your place worried you so much that you knew you had made the right choice by staying at Hogwarts.
Only seven students, including you, had stayed at Hogwarts this year and you took advantage of a break in surveillance to wander the corridors without any specific goal. You had put on a warm coat over his pyjamas and, your eyes lost in the distance, you wondered if you would ever find his place.
You had just reached the astronomy tower when an icy wind swept the stairs, almost making it fall. It was then that a translucent silhouette appeared right in front of you.
You jumped more out of surprise than fear, it was not uncommon to come across ghosts at all hours of the day and night. Except that you did not know this ghost, and you must have been the only student at Hogwarts who could boast of knowing all the ghosts in the castle, because they were often your best company. Even Peeves could make you smile when he found you crying, hidden in the stairs leading to the dungeon.
"Who are you ?" you asked, your voice higher than you intended.
Across from her, a tall man with stern features and eyes as dark as his hair was staring at her.
"Severus Snape," he finally said.
You gaped. You knew who he was of course, a hero, the one without whom the war could never have been won, the one to whom your father owed so much.
"Severus Snape," you repeated stupidly.
"I doubt that's your name," he said sarcastically.
"I'm [Y/N] Potter," you answered.
He looked at you even more intently. You didn't really look like your father, except for the green eyes you shared, and you hadn't inherited anything from your mother except for your red hair. Your features weren't really Potter, and you weren't really Weasley. You didn't look like anyone.
"I know who you are. I've watched you many times."
"Really ?" you asked surprised.
"Really. The first time... the first time, I thought I saw a ghost."
You looked at him without understanding. He sighed heavily before inviting you to sit on one of the steps of the large stone staircase.
"I came the day you started school for the first time. I wanted to know where the last Potter offspring would end up. I was hoping that another Potter would find his place in my house. I recognized you right away," he explained.
"Because of my red hair ?" you asked with a pout.
You hated the colour of your hair that had often earned you teasing in primary school.
"No. Because you look like him."
"Who ?" you asked with curiosity evident in your voice.
"Lily. Lily Evans. Your grandmother."
"Really ?"
"Can you stop always saying really each time I tell you something ? Is it so hard to believe me ? You look exactly like her at the same age."
"Dad sometimes talks to me about her. She was perfect. Like him. Like my brothers and sister."
Snape raised his eyebrows, intrigued.
"Do you feel overshadowed, Miss Potter?"
You hesitated, biting your lip.
"I... I don't particularly aspire to be popular. I just... I wish I wasn't in the shadow of James and Lily, my sister. James is funny and charismatic, even at home it's all about him. Mum often takes care of Albus because he's more sensitive and Dad... he tries toe hide it but I can see he has a preference for Lily," you said almost in a whisper.
She looked up at Snape, expecting a hint of judgment in his expression or a sneer at her complaints, but he just watched her with quiet intensity.
"You underestimate yourself, Miss Potter."
"Easy for you to say when you're a hero," you replied with a shrug.
"I'm not a hero and I never have been. I did what I did to redeem myself, to redeem my mistakes. You carry a heavy family name and you come from a lineage that weighs heavily on your shoulders, but your talent, even if you can't see it now, is yours alone and the day you let it blossom, then your inner light will shine brighter."
"What if I can't do it ?" you asked, eyes shining with unshed tears.
"You have to believe that you can do it."
You didn't answer, but Snape's words resonated within you stronger than ever.
"Why are you never seen among the other ghosts ?" you dared to ask.
"Because I hate being surrounded by idiots. And the last thing I want is for some idiot student to come after me and ask me even stupider questions than they did."
You laughed softly, understanding that this castle was as much a sanctuary as a prison for Snape's mind.
"Do you think you're still here for a reason ?" you asked, looking at the snow that had started to fall again.
"I don't know. I think people like me never really find peace. But that's fine with me. I don't really deserve it."
"I think everyone deserves peace. Life is hard enough as it is without being tortured in the afterlife."
"Those are very wise words, Miss Potter. But you don't know anything about life yet. You are privileged, even if you can't find your place among your people. And I wish you, [Y/N], that you never have to know the harshness of existence."
He looked at you with even more intensity, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of melancholy and harshness.
Suddenly, the school clock began to chime. It was midnight.
"Merry Christmas, [Y/N]," Snape said with a slight smirk, so small that you almost thought you had imagined it.
"Merry Christmas, Professor Snape."
He turned away from you, and he left through the window before disappearing completely. You stood still for a moment, staring at the spot where he had stood a few moments earlier, your heart pounding, then, you straightened up, a slight smile on your lips, and you returned to your common room.
For the first time in a long time, you no longer felt alone. You knew even if he hadn't said anything about it, that your secret visitor tonight was watching over you like a silent guardian. And something deep inside you told you that this wouldn't be the last time you'd see him.
Chapter 19: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 19 - A HELPFUL HAND [C2]
Summary:
Can Elliott be forgiven ?
Chapter Text
The cold, calculated words hurt you more than any pain. You stood there in front of him, your eyes expressing a pain you couldn't verbalize while Elliott, for the first time in a long time, was destabilized.
"I don't understand why you're so angry. I didn't send it," he tried to defend himself clumsily.
"BASTARD !" you yelled, throwing the letter at his feet.
"I... Please, [Y/N], I didn't send it! I meant to, but I got to know you and I... I was going to destroy that letter."
"You're just a bastard, greedy, greedy! I thought, I really thought that under your faults there was a heart, hope for you, but there is none. You used me, the friendship and respect that my uncle has for you. You think you're a man with your weapons, your wealth and your lands, but all that is worthless if your heart is prisoner of your wickedness."
Elliott tried to apologize again, but you turned away in the face of his empty words, leaving him alone with his guilt.
You locked yourself in your room, going around in circles. You didn't know if it was better to run away or wait for your uncle. But where would you go anyway, here in the middle of nowhere?
The safest choice was to wait. Your uncle wouldn't abandon you, you were sure of it.
For his part, Elliott, alone with himself, felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: regret. And for the first time, he began to doubt the man he had become.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"You weren't supposed to see it."
"I didn't send it !"
"You don't let me explain it to you, [Y/N]..."
All those sentences that Elliott had said to you and that were now going round in circles in your head. Just words. Just wind.
That was all he knew how to do, say nice words, play with people to get what he wanted. He had hurt you by betraying you. A pain increased tenfold by the fact that you had started to have feelings for him.
You had decided to keep your interactions with him to a minimum, which meant pretending he didn't exist, which was somewhat complicated since you lived in his house.
Whenever Elliott tried to talk to you, you remained cold, avoiding answering when you could. The rest of the time, you were locked in your room, reading or getting bored.
Elliott's workers didn't know what the nature of your relationship was between him and you, but what he did know was that he had become unbearable. Your argument had shaken him and he didn't know how to regain your trust.
"[Y/N], please," he stopped you as he passed you in the hallway that led to the kitchen where you hoped to be able to get something to eat before he returned.
"No."
"Please, I know I hurt you, but... let me fix this, let me...
"Elliott, please," you said like a plea, "I just want to be alone."
He didn't insist, much to your relief, but also to your annoyance, although you couldn't explain all the conflicting emotions you were feeling.
But maybe the fact that every morning you found a hot cup of tea on your doorstep, or that little gifts were left on your dresser like that pastel-colored scarf that had mysteriously appeared in your room after Elliott visited town contributed to all this confusion. Except that it was too easy. He couldn't make up for it with little intentions and gifts, not after betraying you like he had.
Ruminating, you walked to the porch to look at the starry sky. It was then that a deep voice made you jump.
"It's beautiful, all this quiet, isn't it ?"
You turned around, your hand on your heart, to see Elliott sitting in the darkness, watching you.
"The quiet scares me sometimes. I don't like to be alone with my thoughts."
"Why ?"
"Because sometimes, they torture me."
Elliott nodded without saying anything and a quiet silence settled between you until he decided to break it again.
"I'm not good at apologizing. But I'm sincerely sorry for that letter."
He didn't say anything more and you didn't speak either, but you stayed close to him until he declared that it was time for him to go to bed.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This situation that wavered between coldness and a moment of complicity lasted another three long weeks, when finally, your beloved uncle returned. Except he didn't bring the news you were hoping for.
"Your father is determined, [Y/N]. I offered him a fortune, but he won't hear of it. He says that at your age, you should already be married and a mother, that it's high time."
"Uncle !" you exclaimed, horrified.
"Don't worry, we'll find a solution. I have friends in the United Kingdom, they can welcome you."
"But by the time they get your letter, it'll be too late. My father will come here with my fiancé and... the trap will close without me being able to do anything about it and after that, I'll be confined to my house for the rest of my life for daring to run away," you said, feeling panic invade your entire being.
"You could just run away," Elliott said, who had been listening without saying anything until now.
"To where ?" you asked, not even trying to hold back the tears that burned in your eyes any longer.
"Anywhere. Your uncle could give you money and you could go anywhere you want. To America. You could start a new life, with a new identity if you wanted."
The idea was tempting, but also frightening. You had few resources on your own and life was not kind to women, you were well aware of that.
"Men are going to come looking for you, [Y/N]," your uncle said, "you have to decide what you want to do, but quickly."
"I... I'm going to run away. Get everything organized, uncle, I'll take the boat to America."
You were devastated, but this was your best chance to escape this arranged marriage and you knew it.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Everything was planned. Your uncle had given you a considerable sum of money to start a new life and Elliott would drive you to the city so that you could take the boat. She had hesitated to tell her uncle that she did not want to be escorted by Elliott, but that would have forced him to reveal the tradition of the man who was trying so hard to redeem himself. She also could not deny the fatigue that marked her uncle's features. He would not have the strength to drive her to the port.
"Why did you offer yourself ?" you asked Elliott one afternoon when he was tending to a young injured colt.
"Because you would never survive alone in this desert."
"What if it was a trap ?"
"[Y/N], trust me, I wouldn't have waited this long if I really wanted to trade you for money. You'd already be married by now. But... that's not what I want."
He was about to say something else, but he stopped himself. The intensity of his gaze made you shiver and deep down, you wanted to believe him.
"I'm not sure I can forgive you," you whispered.
"Give me a chance," he said in a breath.
He straightened up to tower over you and slowly advanced towards you.
"Why ?"
He brought his face close to yours, so close that you could feel his hooked nose caressing your face.
"Elliott?" you asked in a whisper.
Slowly, as if to give you time to pull back, to refuse him if you wanted, he moved a little closer until his lips were on yours.
"That's why," he said as he straightened up.
You watched him walk away to go back to tending to the foal, your troubled mind and heart ready to explode making you doubt your choice.
That's when you knew what you had to do.
"Elliott," you called out to him.
"He turned to you, a questioning eyebrow raised.
"I... I'm not sure I want to run away anymore," you confessed.
"Then don't!" he replied firmly.
He reached you in two strides and his rough hands captured your face.
"There's another option, [Y/N]. You could marry me. Your father won't be able to do anything, it would be legal and he wouldn't be able to force you to go back there anymore."
"Marry you ? I.."
"I wouldn't force you to do anything. After the wedding I mean. I would wait as long as you want. But you'd be safe, you'd have a roof over your head, food on the table and everything you need."
"Elliott..."
"Say yes."
"We barely know each other," you pointed out.
"We've lived together for two months, that's enough for me to already know what I like about you and what I can't stand. I hate it when you're right and prove me wrong, I don't like your cooking and you sometimes snore at night."
"I don't snore!" you exclaimed in outrage.
"Oh yes, you do," he said with a laugh, "almost every night."
"Rubbish !"
"I assure you, a charming little sound. I don't understand how the dingoes still dare to come near with all the noise you make."
You punched him on the shoulder, which made him laugh harder.
"I don't like your arrogance, the way you think you're superior to others, and I don't like the way you treat the aborigines.
Elliott sighed.
"I can... improve. If you help me," he said with a glint of vulnerability that threw you off.
"What do you expect in return ? My father won't give you a cent."
"I don't need your father's money, I have enough already."
You looked down, torn between your distrust and your desire to believe him.
"[Y/N], I'll protect you. I'm not an easy man, but I'll never force you to do anything. Not something you don't want. You can give your opinion, challenge me, be yourself. I might not be able to offer you the luxury and opulence you grew up in, but I can offer you a good life."
"What if we weren't meant to be together ?"
"What if we were meant to be together? What if I could give you what you need, and you what I need?"
"Elliott, we're so different..." you said, biting your lower lip.
You weren't sure. Sure, you knew what you felt, but how could you know if it wasn't just passing?
And you were as different as the moon and the sun. He was so dark, manipulative, proud, where you were nothing but vulnerability, shyness, and light.
"That's right, we complete each other. I'll teach you to be stronger and you'll teach me to be better."
He moved closer, his gaze searching yours.
"I'm scared, Elliott," you said, unable to tear your gaze away from his.
"With me, you'll never have a reason to be afraid again."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Your uncle, although surprised, immediately gave his blessing and with the help of the local pastor, you and Elliott were married in the small chapel in town. A prostitute who served as company for Elliott's men had managed to find you a pretty dress and despite your doubts, you were radiant. Deep down, you felt that you had made the right decision.
And when your father arrived with your fiancé and two of his men, it was your husband who greeted them with his gun... and all his men ready to defend the new Mrs. Marston.
"MARRIED !" yelled your father, "how dare you dishonour me like that? You little slut! You're not worthy of my name."
"That's good because she's mine now," Elliott replied with a predatory grin.
When Armand tried to attack him, Elliott made him back off with a bullet fired near his foot.
"It's going like it's for nothing," Elliott said, twirling his pistol between his expert fingers, "one more step and the next one could well be for your heart."
"She's mine," Armand yelled.
"She's never been anyone's and now she's my wife. I don't know how it works in your big coastal cities, but here, no one ever gets in my way, not even the army. So go back to your pretty houses and drink your tea and do your hair. [Y/N] chose a man, a real one."
Armand was so angry he was almost turning purple. Your father didn't say anything to him, but you could see the disappointment etched on his features.
"Keep her, Marston. I deserve much better than that little slut who gave herself to the first guy she met."
This time, Elliott's shot grazed his ear, causing a little blood to run down his face.
"Don't ever insult my wife again ! And now, off my land !"
Elliott whistled and several of his men stepped forward to chase Armand away. Your father approached you under the cautious gaze of your husband who was still holding his gun in his hands.
"Are you sure, [Y/N] ?"
"It's too late, father, I'm already married to Elliott."
"[Y/N], I won't make you believe that I'm not disappointed, because I am terribly. But if one day you want to come home, my door will always be open to you."
You smiled shyly, recognizing your father there.
"Thank you, father. But I love Elliott. I'm going to be happy here."
"I wish you that, my girl."
He kissed you on the forehead before turning to go back to Sidney, leaving you now alone, here, in the middle of the arid lands, with your husband.
"Do you love me ?" Elliott asked, holding his hat with one hand to keep it from flying away.
"Maybe. But just a little," you answered with a mischievous glint in your eye.
He burst out laughing before taking you in his arms to give you a passionate kiss.
"And here I was, thinking that I would never deserve a second chance. But here you are, in my arms."
"In your bed," you added, kissing him on the nose.
Elliott's smile widened, and with a smooth gesture, he lifted you up to take you to his room. Your room. It was high time, after this helpful hand, to consummate the marriage.
Chapter 20: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 20 - WRONGFUL PERCEPTION [E1]
Summary:
When the daughter of an old friend has compromised herself, Christopher Brandon sacrifices himself to save her reputation. But maybe love can blossom, even in the most unusual context.
Chapter Text
It had been a long time since Christopher had seen Sir William Fleet. He had known him in the army and although he was much older than him, he had quickly become friends with him. He was a wise, discreet, and introverted man, quite the opposite of John Middleton who was also a good friend of William. The latter liked to joke that John was often the yin to his yang.
Christopher's visit was not insignificant. He had received word from John that their old friend was very ill and the doctor was not certain that he would survive the winter. Christopher had therefore made the trip, hoping to see his friend in better condition than he had been told.
A servant showed him into the large Fleet home. The place was much more modest than his Delaford estate but it was a beautiful, well-kept place, which housed the memories of several generations, some more prosperous than William today, although he had done a remarkable job of managing the family fortune.
"Colonel Brandon, my father will see you," a small, shy voice startled him.
He turned around and couldn't help but stare in spite of himself at Marie Fleet, William's daughter. He had never met her before, every time he had come to visit his friend, his child too shy to meet anyone's gaze had always taken refuge in her room and her father, sometimes too indulgent, had always let her do it. Christopher remembered a month's stay where the young girl who could not have been more than twelve at the time had managed the feat of never being seen by anyone.
Marie was twenty-one now and she was a pretty young girl with soft features, but her eyes, which she had been pretty, seemed to carry a shadow that betrayed torments far too great for a young lady of her age and rank.
"Miss Fleet, I am delighted to meet you," Brandon said, bowing politely.
She gave him a small bow without answering, then headed down a hallway, still in silence. Christopher knew he had to follow her and she led him to a small private sitting room with heavy green drapes that filtered the sunlight, giving the room a pleasant, subdued light.
"Christopher, my old friend !" William exclaimed as he rose from his chair.
He didn't look very well but he didn't seem as ill as John had said. Perhaps the potions were taking effect.
"Do you need anything, father ?" Mary asked, never looking up from the floor.
"No, thank you, child. You can get back to your business."
She left without asking for more as William went to a bottle of Brandy to pour a generous amount into two glasses.
"You seem to be in better shape than the rumours suggested," Brandon pointed out cautiously.
"Marie is taking good care of me, but this cough refuses to leave me alone. The doctors weren't sure I'd recover, but I'm more robust than he thinks," William replied, taking a sip from his glass.
"John said you were dying."
William stared at his glass, swirling the liquid without really seeing it.
"I exaggerated a bit because I wanted to be sure you'd come," he finally admitted.
"Why didn't you write ? I would have come without you lying about your condition," Christopher said coldly.
"I didn't lie. Not really. The doctors really weren't sure I'd recover, and they said it would be a harsh winter, especially in this big, old house. But... there's something I'd like to ask you."
Before he could continue, he was overcome by a coughing fit that doubled him over. Christopher stood up to help him, but William stopped him with a wave of his hand.
"It would be as much of a lie as saying I'm perfectly fine. I'm getting old, and while I'm not yet in the grave, my health is failing. Fast. Too fast. And I need you to do me a favour, old friend."
"Of course, tell me," Brandon said, watching him closely.
It was true that William was not the dashing soldier he had once been. Life had worn him down, and Christopher could see the weariness imprinted on every one of his features, that weariness that life brings and that never goes away once it sets in.
"My daughter... She has no suitor. She has always been very lonely and the boys, the few who were interested in her fortune, have ended up turning away. As soon as she opens her mouth, she surpasses them and it scares them. And so much the better, I don't need a dowry hunter as a son-in-law. But, if I die and she is not married, she will have nothing. Everything will go to my nephew. I can't leave this world without being certain that she will be protected. She could work for you..."
"Work for me? You want me to make your daughter a servant?" Christopher asked, really surprised to hear such a thing, "her cousin will be able to take care of her, right ?"
"He would have done it before, but when... when she... not after that. He will disown her and she will end up on the street. She is a good girl, she made a mistake, but she does not deserve to pay for it for the rest of her life, and she is brave, she will work hard, I am sure of it and I know that you treat your people well."
Christopher frowned without understanding.
"Christopher, I trust you. I ask nothing more than that you accept her under your roof when I am no longer here. She and..."
"What are you hiding from me William? " Christopher asked, understanding that Marie's situation was not as trivial as it seemed.
There was something more than a father worried about his daughter who would not inherit his estate or his money and he could not put his finger on this certainty William had that his nephew would refuse to take care of Marie.
"Christopher, what I am going to tell you must never leave this room."
Christopher nodded solemnly.
"Marie, last summer she went to London with my brother and her cousins. There she met a young man. A young man unworthy of her affection, but she did not know that. She did not want to tell me much, but he comes from an important family and he is said to be a lawyer. Anyway, she believed his sweet talk and... and..."
William was unable to continue, the lump in his throat compressing him too much, this lump of fear for this only child that he had always cherished so much since the death of his wife.
"She's carrying a child," Brandon guessed, jaw clenched.
"Yes. It can't be seen yet, she must be barely two months old. We went to see a healer who offered to... to deliver her early, but Marie refused."
"How could your sweet and shy daughter have gotten herself mixed up with a smooth-talking lawyer?" Brandon growled, although his anger was not directed at Marie but at this miscreant who clearly refused to assume his paternity.
"Out of naivety. Also out of hope of finally being loved by someone other than her old father. It's my fault. I was too lenient with her, I wanted to compensate for her years when I was not there and she had to grow up with the firm and implacable authority of my wife who never let her get away with anything. I trusted her and her cousins to watch over each other, but Marie, although intelligent, is terribly naive in matters of the heart and the flesh. She believed in her fine words, she let herself be seduced and now... now, if anyone finds out that she is expecting a baby out of wedlock, she will be ruined. And how can you hide such a thing ?"
William's voice broke on these last words but he bravely held back his tears.
"I first thought of hiding her until the delivery and then giving the baby away, but Marie... she wouldn't survive it, I know her, she wouldn't bear to see her baby taken away from her. And she couldn't keep such a secret, pretend that nothing had happened, she would suffer from it, would never recover and would be unable to find a husband."
"That's the best solution," Christopher pointed out, "you could entrust the child to good people, who would raise it well."
"I know, but I thought... I thought that you could take her and the child in. She could put some money aside, and I have some for her too, a little safe that no one knows about. When she had saved enough, she could leave for the Americas and invent a new life for herself. To say that her husband died in India. They say anything is possible there."
"So you want me to take in your daughter and her child, for your daughter to work for me until she has enough money to escape to a country where she won't know anyone and will be left to fend for herself with a child? " Christopher summed up.
"I don't know what else to do," William admitted.
"Marie is innocent, she can barely look anyone in the eye, and do you think she'll be able to survive alone in a distant land ?" Christopher asked.
"Isn't that her best hope ?" William asked, no longer hiding his tears.
Christopher stood up, pacing.
"No," he finally said firmly, "there is another solution."
"Which one ?"
"Marriage."
Christopher's words were followed by a heavy silence.
"Christopher, I would never ask you that," William began.
"No, but I'm offering it to you," Christopher interrupted.
"What about the child ?"
"Mine. No one will have to know."
"I... Christopher, do you understand what you're proposing ?" William insisted.
He knew Christopher was a good man, he also knew that after Eliza disappeared, hisMy friend didn't really believe in love anymore, but to find himself trapped in a marriage of convenience with a lost girl...
"I'll take care of her, she won't want for anything and you know that your inheritance interests me very little. When you die, I'll make sure that everything goes to your daughter and her child. If it's a little girl, I'll make sure that everything is done legally so that she inherits everything when she's an adult. That way, you'll know that at least one Fleet girl will have some freedom to choose the life she wants to lead."
"Christopher... Marie, what if she never gives you back what you're offering her now ?"
"Then, so be it. I'm not doing it so that she owes me anything. I'm almost 35 and I no longer have any illusions about finding love. I'm old and very unattractive."
"Nonsense! Old? Wait until you're my age, wait until you need a maid to get out of bed and you can call yourself old, you young fool," William said, rolling his eyes.
"No matter, I'll watch over her and the child. It doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, it will be mine and the child will never want for anything. As for Mary, she will be free to move around, the Delaford will not be a prison for her. Besides, John's cousins are set to move in near him in his old cottage. Maybe she can find a friend with one of them."
William thought for a moment, emptying his Brandy in a slow sip.
"Are you sure, Brandon ? I don't want to give Mary false hope, make her believe that everything will be fine if you're not sure."
"I am. I won't back down."
"Good. I'll talk to her tonight," William said, feeling a terrible weight lift from his heart.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to do it myself," Christopher suggested.
William nodded, standing up with renewed vigour.
"How about we go see the ponds ? I don't really have time to tease their tenants anymore, but my gardener takes good care of them."
The two men went out together, William joking like in the good old days of the army, Christopher still the stoic and composed man who suffered in silence. He didn't suffer from his decision, however, he knew it was the right one. Mary would have a chance, she and her child, which Eliza had not had.
Late that afternoon, before dinner was announced, Christopher asked permission to speak to Mary alone. The young woman slowly entered the library where he was waiting for her, her eyes lowered, her cheeks slightly pink.
"Colonel Brandon, did you want to speak to me ?"
"Miss Fleet, we were never formally introduced."
She didn't answer, but he didn't miss her hand that almost landed on her stomach before she stopped it.
"Miss Fleet, may I speak to you frankly?" Christopher asked, observing her carefully.
"Of course," she answered, looking up at him for the first time.
"Your father... he confided... he confided your secret to me."
Marie blushed violently, her eyes wide in a mixture of fear, anger and shame.
"He..."
She was tempted to tell him that he was a little senile and no longer knew what he was saying, but she didn't want to disrespect her father in this way.
"He shouldn't have. It's my burden, not his," she said instead.
"I'm afraid a child's burden is always his parents'," Christopher replied bitterly.
Marie was lucky to have an understanding father who wanted to lighten his load. If his sister had ever returned home in Marie's condition, their father... he preferred not to think about what his father would have done. He remembered that his sister was happily married in France and focused on what he intended to tell Marie.
"I can help you," he said, his features softening with the compassion he felt for this very young woman.
"How ?" Marie asked, frowning.
"I proposed to your father and he accepted."
"What ? But he had no right ! And I, don't have a say in it ?!" Marie fumed.
Christopher couldn't blame her for her reaction, but she was still young and naive about the world around her. She had been far too protected by a father who had wanted to redeem himself by offering her everything she wanted without ever letting her stray too far from him. At least until that unfortunate escapade in London where she had proven that she knew nothing about the world.
"Your burden would also become mine. You would be protected from rumours, from judgments."
"A pity marriage ?" Marie spat.
William entered at the same moment.
"Come, come, my child, why all this shouting ?" he asked calmly.
"That's your solution, father ? Marry me to a stranger ? Chain me to a man I don't know ?"
"You feel insulted, Marie, but that's the best solution. Christopher is a good man, I have known him for a long time. He will watch over you and your child.
"Father !" Mary exclaimed, outraged.
"You will have a name and protection, just like your child." William said, raising his voice a little.
"You can't force me !" his daughter insisted.
"No, but if you have any common sense you will accept. You made a mistake, an unfortunate mistake, but all is not lost. Christopher is offering you a marriage to save your honour, you will have a roof over your head, you will get my house and my money when I die and this child will never be called a bastard, Mary. This is an opportunity and if you don't take it for yourself, don't be selfish, take it for the baby !"
She took a step back. It was the first time her father had spoken to her like that and his harsh tone took her by surprise.
"What if I refuse ?" she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Christopher stepped forward, towering over her.
"I'll do everything I can to help you, but I think marriage is the best solution. It will spare you the rumours, the prejudices, and most importantly, it will spare the child. It will have a chance, a real chance in this world. You know that a child with no name has nothing in this world."
Marie remained silent, her green eyes shining with silent pain until she finally whispered :
"If you think this is the best solution, father, then I accept."
The old man sighed in relief. Making Marie see reason hadn't been too difficult, and with any luck, this marriage would become more than a marriage of convenience.
The marriage couldn't wait, not with a nearly two-month-old baby growing inside Marie's womb. That night, William was already making plans for the wedding with Christopher. It would take place in the small chapel that bordered his land. Nothing too lavish, nothing too flashy, which suited Christopher just fine.
Marie, she said nothing. It was not the wedding she had dreamed of, nor the man she had imagined her life with, but she had only herself to blame for having believed the fine words of this lawyer, son of a Lord with words as clever as the venom of a snake that paralyses its victim to kill her.
Except that she was not dead, and she was suffering. Her heart was broken and the child she was expecting would remind her for the rest of her life of her mistake and the fact that she was condemning Christopher to a life he had not asked for and did not deserve.
Five days, she would be married in five days. Her father had her mother's dress brought to her, but Marie hesitated.
"Father, I don't think she'd be happy if I wore her dress. Not under these circumstances."
"Marie, your mother was harsh, but she loved you. And she wouldn't have abandoned you, I'm sure of it."
Marie bit her lower lip.
"You'll look lovely," William added as he handed her the dress.
The days passed in a total blur for poor Marie who seemed totally disconnected from everything that was going on around her. In any case, she didn't really have a say. She was asked her opinion on the flowers and she just nodded, she was asked her opinion on the meal and she just recalled that she hated onions.
The ceremony took place with few guests, as agreed. Brandon, dignified and elegant in his red suit, supported Marie when her father handed her over to him. The young woman was shaking, but she was elegant in the white dress that her mother had worn years before. Christopher lifted her veil that hid her frightened eyes and smiled softly at her, hoping to reassure her.
When it was time for the vows, Marie said hers without even hearing them while Brandon said his with firmness and honour.
"We'll leave for the Delaford tomorrow," Christopher announced to Marie during dinner.
"Good," she said calmly.
She ate little, aware of her uncle who was looking at her sideways. He didn't know, she was sure, at least not about the child. But it was not impossible that the cousin to whom she had confided about those nights with the young man who had conquered her heart had spoken to her about it and that he had guessed the reasons for this hasty marriage.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Arriving at the Delaford, Christopher showed her the room she would occupy and Marie, once alone, lay down on the bed and fell asleep immediately until the next day. A maid came to help her get dressed and set up her things.
Christopher, for his part, was aware that he had to give her time. Only time and respect could lead Marie to adapt to this new life, and who knows, perhaps also to accept him as a husband and not just as a protector.
The days passed and if Marie made efforts to talk to him during dinner, she always kept a certain distance. However, although he wasn't really demonstrative in his gestures, Christopher did not fail to be so in his attentions. Every day, he ordered the servants to ensure that Marie's room as well as the small living room where she liked to embroider and the library where she sometimes read were always well heated.
He had also noticed the young woman's love of fruit tea and since then, the kitchen shelves were overflowing with it. He had also had new shoes made for her so that her swollen feet would suffer less and he had also asked that the poetry books, a genre she seemed to like, be all gathered on easy-to-access shelves in the library.
And yet, it never seemed enough to make the young woman lower her guard.
"A ball ?"
Christopher had just announced to her that they were invited to the Middletons. There was a ball there and he hoped she might meet John's cousins or make friends with a lady to ease the loneliness that seemed to follow her like a shadow.
"I don't want to go," she said calmly.
"Why ?" Christopher asked softly.
"I... I wouldn't know anyone," she said.
He could see she was genuinely frightened. Perhaps the memory of the last social outings in London and their aftermath still haunted her.
"I'll be with you all the time," he said, "John is my best friend, I can't upset him by saying no."
She bit her lip, annoyed. She had met John and Mrs. Jennings soon after her marriage to Christopher and had found them nice if a little too outgoing for her tastes. She had also met Elinor Dashwood when she had tea one afternoon with Mrs. Jennings and had found her very nice but she had not liked her sister who thought very little before she spoke and who was a little too impulsive for her. She also did not like this man, this Willoughby, with whom she was constantly hanging out. Something told her that he was not trustworthy. He looked too much like... like the one for whom her heart had raced, making her believe she was in love, except that he was only a mirage and not a lover.
"I am afraid they will see," she finally murmured.
Christopher took her hand gently in his and she did not remove it to his great pleasure. No one would see, he thought. No one except him who could notice the subtle changes in her figure. But her pregnancy was still easily concealed.
"They won't notice. Amelia will take care of your dress and nothing will be noticed. But Mary, we'll have to tell them," he told her kindly.
"But they will know. It doesn't take a great mathematician to figure out that I was pregnant before we were married," she said in a small voice.
"We'll say the baby was premature," he argued.
"They'll see that it's not small enough to be premature," she pointed out.
"In that case, we'll stay confined for a while. They'll pretend that the child was born fragile and can't be in contact with too many people so as not to get sick," he said with conviction.
"And the servants ?"
"They won't say anything. They're loyal to me and they're carefully chosen by Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Stafford to ensure that they meet my standards and the grandeur of this house."
Marie finally accepted, her stomach in knots, but deep down, she wanted to please Christopher. She owed him that after all. He didn't force her to do anything, was always respectful and in return, she was going to impose another man's child on him. A child he had promised to recognize and raise as his own. She owed him more than a ball, she owed him everything.
On the night of the ball, as Christopher had promised, no one noticed anything. However, he couldn't help but notice their similarities. Like him, she had this gift for not showing what she felt, even if he guessed her discomfort that must have knotted her stomach at the idea of being surrounded by so many people, she was sparing with words and she had this melancholy air that never left her. He wondered if she had always had it or if, like him when he was just a young man in love with Eliza, she had been happy to live and all smiles.
He had asked her to dance, and although a little clumsy with her feet, she had accepted and had let herself be guided by his kindness. When they returned, she had accepted that he put his coat on her shoulders to protect her from the frost that was starting to bite the roads and arrive in their home, she had agreed to share a last tea with him before going to bed.
The next day, when she had joined him at the dining room table, she had told him to announce her pregnancy and Christopher's smile had made her heart skip a beat. It was as if he were announcing the expectation of his own child, he carried the pride of a father and it had hurt Mary's heart, all too aware of what she was doing to this man.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
That afternoon was particularly rainy. Mary usually didn't mind going out in the rain for a walk, but today the rain was falling hard and the wind was blowing so hard that even the trees seemed to struggle to stay standing.
She had taken refuge in the private sitting room, the one that never saw a guest, and she was busy knitting socks for the baby when Christopher came back with a pile of mail to sort.
"Oh, sorry Mary. I didn't mean to disturb you. I can go to my office," he said, already turning around.
"No, stay. The office is probably freezing, no one has lit a fire in it," she said, setting her work down next to her.
"Can I help you ?" she asked as Christopher settled into an armchair by the fireplace.
"Well, you can answer these letters if you like," he said, handing her a few envelopes, "they're congratulations on the birth of our future baby."
He watched her furtively several times as she wrote concise but courteous replies. She was fragile and vulnerable, but he could see that she was strong, much stronger than she thought. He would teach her.
That night, Marie struggled to sleep. She was troubled by the conflicting emotions she was feeling. Finally, she decided to go down to the living room. She was pretty sure that the fire still warmed the room and she could read a little away from this oppressive room.
As she entered, she jumped. Christopher was there, a book in his hand. He looked up at her and couldn't help but examine her closely. She wore only a simple nightgown that hugged her pregnant curves, making her look even more feminine than she had when they first met.
"Sorry. I didn't know you were here," she said, looking down.
"You're not disturbing me. Do you need anything ?" he asked gently.
"No. I couldn't sleep," she said, moving slowly into the room.
"Sit down. Would you like some tea ?" he asked, pointing to the still-steaming teapot on the coffee table.
She nodded, and he poured her a cup, which she held in her slender hands to warm them.
Christopher picked up a blanket that was neatly folded on a dresser and placed it on his shoulders. Marie murmured a small thank you, but the sincere smile she gave him filled Christopher with a joy he couldn't explain.
"Marie, do you have any happy memories ? Before... before all this ?"
He immediately blamed himself for asking, but he was itching to get to know her a little better.
"I remember my father teaching me to read in his study instead of working with the ledgers," she said with a wistful smile, "and summer days by the ponds. One of them was clear and I used to swim in them when I was younger."
"Marie, are you happy to become a mother ?"
There was a silence during which she had to make an effort not to burst into tears.
"I... I never imagined becoming a mother like this," she finally said, "but, he said he loved me, he told me we would live in his family's mansion, that we would have a good life and then... when he got what he wanted, he didn't even look at me anymore."
She couldn't hold back her tears any longer. Immediately, Christopher stood up to come and take her in his arms. She let him do it without resisting.
"And now, in addition to having ruined my life I ruin yours," she said between two sobs.
Christopher pulled back and took her by the shoulders.
"Marie, you didn't ruin anyone's life. You made a mistake, a mistake in judgment, but your life is not over because of it. You are strong and you should be proud of yourself for being here, still standing and fighting. And you are not ruining my life. I chose you and I don't regret a thing."
She looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude and for the first time, she thought she had had a wrongful perception of Christopher when he had proposed to marry her to save his reputation. He was a man of honour and he proved it to her every day.
"There are rumours, I know," said Mary as she pulled away from Christopher's embrace, "Marianne Dashwood mentioned it when we went on a picnic with Mr. Middleton and Mrs. Jennings."
Christopher clenched his jaw. Damn Marianne and her forked tongue. Of course there were rumours, he knew that. Some people said that this hasty marriage had been orchestrated to save the young woman's reputation but thanks to John who, although he understood the truth had been kind enough to pretend he knew nothing, the rumours thought that it was the honourable Christopher who was not so honourable that he will pass it was rising and that he had sinned before redeeming himself by marrying her.
"Don't listen to Marianne Dashwood. She is a girl of little judgment. This child, Marie, is ours and I will challenge to a duel anyone who dares to say otherwise, is that understood ?"
She nodded, but Christopher put a finger under her chin to force her to look at him.
"Is that understood ?" he insisted.
"Yes," Marie whispered.
"I know you think everything is ruined, that you are lost and that nothing is right, but it is not. Everything is fine and you are not lost, you are my wife. And in time, it will get better, you will see."
They finally separated and Marie returned to her room, gently caressing her round belly. She wondered how a woman like her who had sinned, damaged goods, could deserve a man like Christopher Brandon.
Christopher lingered in his office for a moment. He opened a drawer and pulled out a portrait of Mary, a portrait he had made himself. It had taken him no more than a few months to fall in love with her and yet, even if she opened up to him, she still seemed far away.
He had often wondered if an arranged marriage could open the door to true love and he had long doubted it. His parents had never been happy in their marriage, his brother had ruined Eliza, but still, John had assured him that his marriage, although arranged, had been a solid foundation and that the love he had built with his wife had been much stronger than a quick passion in the glow of a burning fire that made the heart of a man blinded by the illusion he called love beat faster.
But there was no wrongful perception for Christopher. He had fallen in love with Marie, and with patience, she might eventually give herself to him. At least, he hoped so, now that he had a chance to experience love in his tormented life.
Chapter 21: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 21 - HEARTFELT CONFESSION
Summary:
Alexander is back in his village to spend Christmas with his family. He met an old friend, an old friend who could be his second chance to have something who worth living.
Chapter Text
Alexander Dane was depressed. It was nothing new. He hated his role as Dr. Lazarus, yet that was what put food on the table. He couldn't stand all those stupid conventions, those stupid fans, and most of all, he missed the stage.
Theatre, his first love, which unfortunately would never pay as much as this role. Not that he had an extravagant lifestyle, but he liked his little luxury.
This year, he didn't know what had gotten into him, but he had agreed to go home to the United Kingdom for the holidays. No doubt it was his old mother's insistence that had played on his heartstrings. Except that Christmas made him bitter.
As he watched his mother peel potatoes, he noticed a young woman outside, busy taking a shopping bag out of an old red Ford.
"That's the Staffords' daughter, Catherine," his mother said, following his gaze.
"Didn't she live in London?" Alexander asked, frowning.
Catherine... he remembered her well. She had been his accomplice when he was a child, he had no one to play with after school. She had been his best friend when he was a teenager, no one believed in his acting dreams, she had been his biggest disappointment when he had bullied him one evening when she had pointed out to him that he had gotten a big head and had hurt her with words he had not been able to hold back.
"Yes, she worked as a secretary for a small company, but they went bankrupt. She found herself unemployed, the crisis did not allow her to find one quickly enough and she ended up on the street."
Alexander sighed. He had always had the impression that life must be more complicated for Catherine than for others. Yet she was kind and brilliant in his memories. But the universe had seemed to hold it against her from the moment she had dared to say the forbidden word "study at Cambridge". From then on, she had never gotten anything she wanted.
"She's not married ?" Alexander asked as he watched her cross the blue fence that led to his parents' house.
"No. No known man in her life, no children. A very lonely girl if you ask me. No wonder she looks like she's about to burst into tears every time you see her," his mother said as she savagely cut a carrot.
Catherine, the beautiful Catherine who had come to all those plays when he was in London, Catherine who apparently still got nothing from the universe.
Later that afternoon, he was desperately trying to fight the winter cold that invaded every corner of the house, lost in his memories of the past. He was looking forward to New Year's, which he would spend in London... alone, as he often did. But at least he would be far away from this place he had despised since he was a misunderstood child.
That was when he saw her again. Catherine was crossing the road with the same awkward, hesitant gait she had had as a teenager. She slipped on the icy ground, dropping the box she was holding. He hesitated for a second, then decided to leave.
"Always dropping things, Catherine," he said, pulling his coat tighter around him.
She spun around, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Gosh, the great Alexander Dane," she said, straightening up, "I didn't think I'd see you here again," she added with the same captivating smile of their fifteen years.
"Me neither," he admitted, handing her a pouch that had escaped from its box.
"It's a package for a friend. She lives in Scotland and I was supposed to go meet her, but all the trains were cancelled because of the snow," she said, holding the box tighter against her.
"My mother told me you moved back here."
She looked down, blushing slightly.
"Yes, at my parents'," she said, not daring to look at him.
"Hey, there's no shame in it. Think of it as a time to take care of yourself."
"Who are you and what have you done with Alexander?" she asked, her smile returning.
"The years have given me some wisdom," he said, smiling back.
"Are you staying for the holidays ?"
"Only for Christmas."
Well, he wasn't so sure all of a sudden. After all, spending New Year's alone or spending it with his mother, his idiotic little brother, and his aunts was pretty much the same thing.
"Are you and your parents doing anything special for the holidays ?"
"No. Just the three of us."
His mother was right, Alexander thought, Catherine was terribly lonely, and her tired eyes made him nervous. They weren't tired from lack of sleep, no, they looked tired from life.
"I have to go, the post office is closing soon," Catherine said, interrupting his train of thought.
"Sure. I'll probably see you later," Alexander replied, watching her get into her car.
He would see her again, that much was certain. CatherineStafford. The beautiful and sweet Catherine. The girl he had loved all his adolescence without ever daring to admit it to her for fear of losing their friendship. A friendship that he had broken himself one evening when she had needed support and not the sharp blades that had been his words.
He saw her again no later than the next day. She had been hired in old Harry's tea room. He had never imagined his oldest friend as a tea waitress and he was certain that she had neither. It was all a waste, a waste of everything she had to offer, if only she could have had her chance, just once.
"Be careful," she told him as she sat him down at a secluded table, "there's a young fan of Dr. Lazarus here," she said as she pointed with her head to a young boy who was eating cookies in front of a man that Alexander guessed was the child's grandfather.
"Oh no, please..."
"Too late," she said, not hiding her amusement.
The little boy approached him with wide, wondering eyes.
"Where's your costume ?"
"I..."
"To the laundry," Catherine answered for him, stopping him from curtly replying that he didn't spend his life dressed like a stupid alien.
"Can you say it ?"
"Say what ?" Alexander asked gruffly.
"You know, your line."
"He won't let you go until you say it," Catherine sneered, handing him the tea and pastry menu.
"By Grabthar's harm," Alexander said, rolling his eyes.
He hadn't put much conviction into it, but it seemed to suit the child, who returned to his seat.
"He'll be back for a picture and an autograph," Catherine warned him.
"Catherine, can we stop pretending for a moment ?" he stopped her.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
"I know I was an idiot, but I was young, I was scared, scared of getting stuck here and..."
She looked at him without blinking.
"And what, Alexander ?"
"I... I'm sorry."
He had almost told her, but at the last moment, he had changed his mind. Their relationship was too fragile, he knew, to venture into such dangerous waters. He didn't miss her almost disappointed look, but he thought he had imagined it.
"That's the past. I don't blame you anymore. And I'm glad you're here."
She had said it without bitterness, with a disarming sincerity before walking away.
After that, he became one of the most regular customers of the tea room, which was not complicated in such a small village. He spent more time talking to Catherine than eating cakes and drinking tea, and he soon realized that she soothed him.
"Are you planning to go back to London ?" he asked her as he hung a string of lights in the living room window she had just closed.
"I'd like to. Life is more... interesting there," she said as she wiped down a table.
"But ?" he guessed.
"But... I don't know. I feel too old to try anything new and at the same time I don't want to be a prisoner in this village all my life," she admitted.
"Too old ? You're going to be 40," he said, rolling his eyes.
"39 !" she protested.
"Okay, 39. It's not old, you silly girl."
"I know, but it takes money, no matter what you want to do. Not everyone gets to live their dreams, Alexander," she said softly.
"You could live in my apartment. Save yourself rent."
"Oh, now Dr. Lazarus feels sorry for me, great," she mumbled.
"First of all, don't ever call me that again, and secondly, I don't feel sorry. I'm helping my best friend get a fresh start."
"I always felt like you were out of my league, Alexander."
The simple confession made him freeze.
"What do you mean ?"
"I... I don't know. That I expected more from you, but... well... life."
"Catherine..." he said softly, getting down from the stepladder he was perched on.
Could it be that she, too, had feelings for him in the past ?
Had they both missed out on a great story because they didn't have the courage to reveal themselves at the time ?
"Oh, it's already late," she said, looking at her watch, "I have to hurry, I promised my mother I'd bring her some eggs and the grocery store is closing soon. Nothing's open after 6 here."
She offered to take him home, but he declined, saying he'd rather get some fresh air. The truth was, he needed to think because since he got back, he'd been questioning everything: his dreams, his career, what he really wanted in life.
Christmas Eve came all too quickly for Alexander's liking. His parents' house was packed. Aunts, cousins, his idiot little brother... it was all too much for him.
How ironic for an actor, he thought wearily. But in the end, one of those stupid science fiction conventions seemed less difficult to bear than this family gathering.
He managed to escape between the main course and dessert. Outside, sitting on the low stone wall his father had built long ago, he watched the house across the street. Everything seemed silent, except for the diffuse light that the television reflected against the windows of the Staffords' living room.
Without thinking, he got up and went to knock on their door, as if he was no longer the master of his body.
The door opened to reveal Catherine's father who did not immediately recognize him.
"I would like to speak to Catherine, Mr. Stafford," he said with a lack of confidence that irritated her to the highest degree.
"Alexander! How you have changed. Of course, I will get her."
Catherine appeared in the doorway, dressed in pyjamas decorated with a gingerbread man who looked happier than she was at that moment.
"Were you asleep ?" Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I was reading. My parents are watching a show on the BBC," she explained, a little embarrassed that she hadn't taken the time to at least put on a pair of sweatpants and a sweater.
He shook his head. Alone. She was alone. Like him, who felt so alone no matter the world around him.
"Are you okay ?" she asked, intrigued.
"I... I have to tell you something."
He swallowed hard before starting.
"I was in love with you when we were teenagers. And when I saw you again, I realized that I still felt something strong for you."
Catherine's eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing, letting him continue.
"I've spent my whole life running, and I realize that I wasn't running after the right things. I went to the ends of the earth to find that something, while you were here all this time."
"Alexander," she whispered, not hiding her emotion.
"I want us to try. I've always loved you. I still love you. I'm sorry I was an idiot and hurt you, I'm sorry it took me so long to understand, but I'm here now. So, if you'll have me, if you'll try..."
"What about your career ?"
"Can you keep a secret ?"
She nodded, her arms tightening a little around herself to suppress a shiver from the biting cold that surrounded them.
"They're going to kill Dr. Lazarus."
"What a tragedy," she said, not believing it.
"Yes, a terrible tragedy. And after that, I plan to return to London and resume my career on the stage."
She looked at him without saying anything, a silence that began to make Alexander uncomfortable.
"So, what do you think ?"
"I say I've always had feelings for you too, big fool. And yes, I want to try."
He gently pulled her towards him, enveloping her in his warmth, and he placed his lips against hers, kissing her for the first time, but certainly not for the last time, he knew it.
"By Grabthar's harm, it seems that the universe has finally offered us our Happy Ending," he murmured against her lips.
And he was still far from the mark. If only he had known, that this heartfelt confession would bring them both so much happiness, he would have stopped running much earlier.
Chapter 22: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 22 - SHIVERING CERTAINTY [E2]
Summary:
And if, finally, love could blossoms in the most unusual way ? And if, finally, Christopher didn’t really sacrifice himself ? And if, finally, both of them get exactly what they deserve ?
Chapter Text
At breakfast, Marie stared at her plate without much appetite. Brandon watched her furtively. Her round belly left no doubt: in a few months, they would be parents.
"Marie, is everything okay ?" Christopher asked, worried.
"I... I don't really know," she said without looking up.
"Are you scared ?"
"A little bit," she said, gripping her spoon a little tighter.
He reached out a cautious hand to place it on hers. She looked up at his big green eyes and found only tenderness.
"What if I'm not ready for it ?"
"You won't be alone. I'll be there. And we'll hire a governess," he tried to reassure her.
"But I don't want my baby to be raised by servants," she said softly, "I... I want to be a good mother," she confessed, looking down again.
"And you will be," Christopher affirmed, squeezing her hand a little tighter.
Marie gave him a small smile. She still wasn't entirely convinced that everything would be okay, but Christopher had this gift of making her feel calmer, safer. She still felt bad about imposing an illegitimate child on the Colonel, but he seemed sincerely invested. He never made her feel like a burden and if at first she had regretted their union, she accepted it more and more now.
Maybe, yes maybe if she gave him a chance, she could have a good life and even know love, the real one, the one that is born of deep feeling and not of a fleeting passion.
After breakfast, Marie went to get a shawl to go for a walk in the gardens. Christopher, who was busy in his greenhouse preparing the soil for the future roses that would bloom again in the spring, saw her pass by and decided to follow her discreetly.
As she arrived near an old oak tree, she stopped for a moment, her hand placed on her belly.
"Marie, is everything okay ?" Christopher asked as he approached slowly.
She turned around, a big smile on her lips. Without a word, she approached him and, to the Colonel's great surprise, she took his hand to place it on her belly.
Christopher's eyes widened when he felt small knocks against his hand. The baby was moving.
"Hello, little one," he whispered with emotion.
"Do you think it will be a little boy or a little girl ?" Marie asked as she placed her hand against Christopher's which was still resting on her round belly.
"It doesn't matter. It'll be a darling child," Christopher replied, fascinated by the movements he still felt under her large, firm hand.
Marie closed her eyes, a strong emotion pressing on her heart. She was torn, torn between what she had done, between what she was imposing on Christopher, and the feelings she had for him and the future that could be bright, if only she would agree to let him love her and her baby.
"Do you want to know ?" she asked suddenly.
"Know what ?" Christopher asked surprised.
"What happened. Who is the father."
"No, it's your story, it belongs to you."
"But I want to tell you," Marie whispered.
A gust of wind came to sweep the leaves all around, lifting Marie's dress slightly and revealing her ankles that were not covered by her woollen stockings. They were so swollen that she could no longer tolerate any fabric on her sensitive skin. That little glimpse of skin troubled Christopher more than he would have thought. He remembered his brother once telling him about one of his one-night stands when he was not yet engaged to Eliza that a woman's ankles were the most wonderful thing and Christopher, who had laughed at the time, was beginning to believe him.
"Let's go inside and take shelter. This wind could make you sick and now is not the time with the baby on the way," he said, holding out his arm to her.
She followed him into the living room where they sat down by the fire. A maid came to bring them tea and biscuits.
"At the end of February, I went to London, I..."
"Marie, you don't owe me an explanation. I already know that you met a man, that he cheated on you and left you," Christopher interrupted, "I don't need to know more."
"But I feel like I have to tell you everything," Marie said, struggling to hold back her tears.
"You don't owe me anything, Marie. I know what there is to know, I also know that you are strong and you are not alone. You are not anymore. I am here."
"I am sorry that I didn't love you right away, Christopher," she said in a breath, "I agreed to marry you for my father, to spare him after what I did to him, to spare him the shame of having a slut for a daughter."
"Don't you ever talk about yourself like that," Christopher scolded her, "you're not a slut! You're a young woman who was abused by a man without honour. I didn't love you right away either, Marie. I wanted to protect you, save your honour, but for me, this marriage has become much more than a formality," Christopher declared without taking his eyes off her.
"I think it's more than a formality for me too," Marie whispered, her eyes shining, "but I feel guilty."
"Don't be. Never. Forget all that, Marie. This child is a chance, a chance for true love for you and me. And it will be loved, darling. This child is my child, Marie. And you, you must free yourself from this guilt, from these memories that have broken you. Free yourself from the past that you can't erase and focus on our future together."
"Christopher," Marie whispered as she moved closer to him.
"If you had asked me to walk away, I would have, but not now, not now that you have confided all this to me. I know you were betrayed, but we're not all like that, Marie. Try to trust me."
She nodded softly, sitting down next to him. Christopher placed a hand against her cheek. Marie leaned against his palm, more serene than she had been since she'd discovered she was pregnant.
"You're so patient with me," she said, placing her hand against his, "so good."
"I'm yours, Marie. You have my loyalty, my protection, and my love. Unconditionally."
"And if we ever have a fight, will you blame me ?"
"Never ! I'm not like that, Marie. I would never blame you for making me fall in love with you. And I would never use our child against you. This is my baby, it is mine, mine and it will never have to know the truth, because the only truth is that I am the father," Christopher said firmly in a voice that left no room for contradiction.
Marie nodded with emotion, overwhelmed. She had not chosen this marriage, but this union that she had seen as a punishment could well be a blessing if she agreed to forgive herself.
Christopher took her gently in his arms and she let him do it, resting her head against his chest. He offered her stability, security and she felt happy.
Both were aware that there would be efforts to make, trials to overcome, but together, they would be stronger. Christopher was her new beginning, it was a shivering certainty.
"Let's be a family, a real family," she said, raising her head to look into the Colonel's hazel eyes.
"I would be more than happy."
That night, Marie asked Christopher for her permission to sleep with him, which he gladly accepted. That night was the first of many. She felt safe by his side and she loved that he would lay his head against her belly every night to tell their future baby about his adventures in India as their relationship slowly blossomed into respect and love.
"Christopher !"
Christopher woke with a start at the sound of Marie's voice.
"What's going on?" he asked, getting up to light a candle.
"The baby, it's coming," she said with a grimace.
Christopher noticed that the bed was wet. Her water had broken. He immediately called for the doctor and the housekeeper. The doctor arrived quickly with a midwife who told the Colonel to wait outside.
Christopher paced up and down the hallway, clenching his fists every time he heard Marie scream. Inside the room, the governess was wiping his forehead while the doctor, with the help of the midwife, worked to contain a slight haemorrhage.
"Christopher, I want Christopher," she gasped, her fingers clenched on the blood-stained sheets.
The governess went to get him. The poor man, his hands shaking, silently prayed that everything would be okay. He could not bear the loss, neither her nor the child. When the governess told him she was asking for him, he did not hesitate for a second to go back into the room.
"Christopher," Mary whispered when he saw him enter, "stay close to me. Stay."
He came to sit next to her and took her hand in his, squeezing it delicately.
"I'm here, Mary. I'm staying close to you."
He ran a damp cloth over her forehead before placing a kiss on it. In that moment of extraordinary intensity, he offered her the strength and calm she needed, a rock in the storm.
"The baby is coming," the midwife said, pressing a little on Marie's belly.
It took another two hours for the baby to decide to leave the comfort and security of her mother's womb. Marie was exhausted and had lost consciousness once, woken by Christopher who had patted her cheeks to bring her back to her while trying to control his own fear.
When a shrill cry rang out, Marie sighed with relief, a tired smile on her face. The doctor came to place the child in her arms and congratulated her. A little boy. He was tiny, fragile and so innocent. He didn't look premature either, but the doctor and midwife had seen other things and they knew it was not their place to judge or to tell anyone.
"Christopher, do you want to take your son ?" she asked without even realizing that she was crying with happiness.
Christopher took the child with an exaggerated bow, afraid of hurting him.
"Hello my little boy. My son," he said, looking at this little being so pure that he held in his arms.
"He is so beautiful," he said, smiling, "he is a true blessing."
"What do you want to name him ?" Marie asked, placing a hand on her son's head.
"It's up to you," he answered without looking away of the baby's face.
"No. You're his father, it's up to you to choose your son's name."
"What do you think of Thomas ? Thomas William Brandon ?"
"Thomas William Brandon," she repeated, "yes, I like it."
She looked at her husband tenderly, filled with an inner peace that seemed to erase the pain of her past. There was only love in her once-bruised heart and the shivering certainty that this family he was building, everything she had lived, lost, suffered, had led her to this man who was healing her.
"I love you, Christopher," she said as the midwife took their son away to be washed.
Christopher stared at her, his throat tight. He had believed for so long that he was unworthy of being loved, and now he had a family.
"I love you too Marie," he replied, stroking her damp hair, "and Merry Christmas," he added with a smile.
Two years later
Thomas walked awkwardly in the library, following his father who was putting away books. Thomas was a child full of energy who loved to be behind his father, his hero that he tried to imitate from the height of his two years.
Marie entered the room as Christopher who had just picked him up showed her a book containing pictures of exotic animals that he had seen in India. She walked forward, looking at them tenderly, to Brandon whom she hugged from behind, resting her head on his back.
"Don't give him the wrong idea," she said, caressing Thomas' cheek.
"Believe me my dear, as long as I live, our son will never enter the army."
He turned to place a light kiss on her forehead.
"How are you ?" he asked, placing a hand on her belly.
"I'm happy. But exhausted. I wish your child would let me sleep at night," she said, laughing softly.
"I hope it's a little girl," Christopher said, gently caressing the slightly rounded curve that already hinted at the arrival of a future baby in their home.
"A winter baby and a summer baby," Marie said, looking at Thomas who was fidgeting a little in Christopher's arms, demanding her attention.
"And it's all thanks to you, my son," Christopher said in a soft voice, "you're the one who made us a family."
Marie snuggled a little closer to him. On this Christmas Eve, she couldn't be happier. She had everything she had ever wanted and more. Christopher looked so beautiful with their son in his arms. Together, they had overcome so many obstacles and their love was only stronger, growing a little more each day. He was her strength and she was his.
Marie and Christopher had the shivering certainty that they had always been meant to be together and both thanked the heavens for having pushed destiny to bring them together. Neither of them had understood it right away, but they were soulmates. That was a certainty.
Chapter 23: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 23 - EVE OF REVELATIONS [D3]
Summary:
Maybe, just for once in his life, Judge Turpin can have something beautiful.
Chapter Text
Winter was beginning to cover London in a soft white blanket. Richard and Sybil continued to maintain a delicate balance between respect and desire. Sybil's caution and Richard's struggle against his depraved nature to conquer the young woman clashed with each encounter.
However, the young woman could not deny that she was beginning to feel more than affection for the High Judge. But he did not express his intentions clearly, and she was not as naïve as she seemed.
"I would like to invite you to a ball," Richard said bluntly as he entered Sybil's studio.
"Good morning to you too," she said without looking up from her work.
"There is a ball being held at the Mirrens' and I would like you to be my date," he said as he sat down in an armchair, ignoring her previous remark.
"That will not cause any gossip at all," she replied as she cut a wire.
"You care about the rumours ?"
She stopped sewing, looking up at him.
"I'm a woman. And I'm not married. Of course I care," she said, more coldly than she intended.
He rolled his eyes. She would be married soon, she just didn't know it yet.
"Please, Sybil. I'll get you a nice dress."
"Should I sew it myself ?" she asked, resuming her work.
"I may already have the dress," Richard admitted casually.
"You're cocky."
"Optimistic."
"Arrogant."
"Confident."
"Annoying."
"Engaging."
"You always have the last word, don't you ?"
"I'm the judge," he replied, smiling.
"I can't come with you," she said sagely.
"Why not ?"
She sighed, setting her book down on the cluttered table again.
"I'm not from your world. What would people say? What would they say about me ?"
The truth was, she wanted to say yes, she yearned to be on his arm, to wear a beautiful dress, beautiful jewellery, but she couldn't afford to let rumours spread about her. Especially rumours about her and Lord Richard Turpin.
"Come with your father," he said without batting an eyelid.
"My father ? On a night like this ? You really want to humiliate us."
"What if I got you an invitation ? A private invitation ? You wouldn't have to bring someone. Would that be okay ?"
"And why would a family like that invite me ?"
"Lord Mirren owes me... a small favour," he replied cryptically.
He insisted so much that she finally agreed. He came to bring her the dress, a light orange satin and silk dress that set off her porcelain complexion and a set of gold and precious stones.
"It's too much," she said, touching them with her fingertips.
"It's a loan. You can't wear a dress like that without the jewels to go with it," he said, imagining her already adorned in the dress he had chosen for her and her family's jewels.
A carriage had come to collect her, and despite her father's protests that he had begged her not to go, Sybil now stood in front of the Mirrens' vast home. She was trembling a little, impressed by the prestigious guests and their magnificent outfits. She was not one of them and she was only too aware of it. She hesitated to go home, but she would have to walk and she could not walk through the poor districts of London dressed as she was, with such expensive jewels.
"You came," a deep voice said behind her.
She turned with timeless grace. It was him. He was handsome in his perfectly tailored suit, his top hat in his hand. His hooked nose cast shadows on his face from the candlelight reflecting off his stern face.
Sybil's heart skipped several beats as he looked at her with his piercing eyes.
"May I escort you ?"
She should have said no, she knew, but she heard herself say "yes" despite herself. A triumphant smile etched itself on Richard's stern features as he escorted her inside.
Many eyes turned toward them, and already she could feel the first comments, the first rumours spreading. Richard tightened his grip on her arm to reassure her. By his side, she feared nothing.
This was Sybil's first time attending a ball. It was also the first time she had celebrated Christmas Eve. Her parents had never had enough money for such trivialities. She didn't know what to make of all this opulence. It was unfair that a handful of people could enjoy all this luxury, this food and the joy of exchanging gifts while so many families struggled to put bread on the table.
"Sybil, will you walk with me in the gardens?" Richard asked as the first dances began.
She accepted, wishing to escape the oppression she felt with every sideways glance. She was relieved too that he hadn't asked her to dance, she who couldn't take two steps without tripping. Dancing was another luxury she hadn't been allowed. What was the point anyway, a girl of her background didn't need to know how to dance like the bourgeoisie.
Richard draped his wool coat over Sybil's shoulders as he led her toward the frozen fountains of the estate.
"Sybil, I love you," he said without preamble.
The young woman stopped short, her mouth hanging open.
"You can't," she said, her eyes wide.
"I can, and I assure you. I love you."
"We barely know each other," she said, taking a step back.
"We know each other well enough. We've been in each other's company every day for the past six months. That's enough to call someone a friend. But I don't want a friend, Sybil. I want a wife."
"You're so hard to understand," she whispered, "and there are all these rumours about you. I have... I don't have a rich father who can save me if..."
"If I'm violent ?" he asked for her.
She didn't answer, preferring to look away.
"You have a very low opinion of me," he said coldly, "but I can assure you, Sybil, that you will never have to fear me."
"They're just words."
Words she wanted to believe, though.
"Sybil, I know what is said about me. I know my reputation and I am not ashamed of it, on the contrary, I maintain it. I learned to control every aspect of my life, to protect myself, to be tough. My father shaped me like that, tough. But with you, with you I learn to lower my defences. This power you have over me scares me. It fascinates me. And you are strong. You are not afraid to confront me. I need a woman like you, Sybil."
The young woman's heart was beating wildly. She wanted to believe it, but they were from two worlds too different for it to work between them.
"I fell in love with you Sybil. A long time ago. When I was still a young judge. I noticed you when you were still working with your mother and I could never erase your face from my mind. I love you. I love you and I want you by my side."
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel anything, but..."
"Don't say 'but,'" he interrupted gently.
"We're too different."
"We could fix that."
"What do you mean ?"
Richard approached softly, as if afraid of scaring her before caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.
"If you were to become my wife, you'd be a Lady."
"I..."
Sybil didn't know what to say.
"And no one would ever dare say anything. You'd be the wife of one of the most powerful men in London. You'd be safe from everything."
"Are you proposing to me ?"
"Only if you say yes."
She looked down, her breath short. When she imagined a man proposing to her, it wasn't quite like this. She had never imagined the High Judge of London asking her to marry him in such an unromantic way in the back of a prestigious house while she was dressed like a princess.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't have feelings for you," she said under her breath, "but..."
"Will you stop saying but ?" Richard asked her sternly.
She let out a small laugh.
"Will you marry me, Sybil ?"
"What if we're not meant to be together ?"
"My mansion is big enough that we'll avoid each other for the rest of our lives. But I hope that doesn't happen. I want a real marriage, a real wife by my side, not a trophy to show off at social gatherings before relegating her to the background."
"What about my workshop ?"
"Again, my manor is vast, you will choose the best room to work in. Your shop could remain open, but you will need a saleswoman. Lord Turpin's wife cannot be alone in her workshop in the middle of London. For security reasons."
"And my father ?"
"He can live on my estate. Or in a home of his choice, close to you if you wish. There are beautiful comfortable houses close to the manor. He would want for nothing either."
She smiled, shaking her head. He had thought of everything.
"Sybil Turpin. It's a pretty name," she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Richard froze.
"Is that a yes ?"
"Yes."
Richard's heart began to beat so hard that he thought it would burst out of his chest. Never, absolutely never, had he felt such joy. In fact, it was a real eve of revelations, because he didn't know he was capable of love or happiness before her.
"Can I walk you home ?" he asked, taking her hand.
"Already ? It's not even ten o'clock," she wondered.
"I'd like to talk to your father. I'd like you to be my fiancée before Christmas."
They left the party discreetly, getting into Richard's carriage, which took them to Sybil's modest little house. She was a little ashamed to show their home maintained with so little means, but Richard saw nothing other than the future that was announced radiant with the one he loved at his side.
Sybil's father, although surprised, saw no objection to this union. His little girl, married, promised a life of comfort, to a Lord, no less. He had never hoped for so much for her, if not her happiness.
He suggested to Richard to end the evening with them, which the judge accepted. Sybil went to get their apple cider, the one he was saving for Christmas and her father cut several pieces of the cake he had made in the afternoon.
Outside, the snow had started to fall again, inside, the fire in the fireplace crackled, in the hearts of Richard and Sybil, love radiated. They would be married soon, there was no way Richard was dragging out the engagement, and after that, they would build a future together, a family, the legacy of the Turpin lineage. And everything would be fine.
Chapter 24: RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 24 - CHRISTMAS PARTY
Summary:
It's the eve of Christmas for three generations of a same lineage.
Notes:
Thank you for having read these 24 stories, thank you for your nice comments and your support !
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, dear readers !
Chapter Text
Richard hated Christmas. It was no surprise to you who had learned it in your first year of marriage. It was not really a problem for you not to celebrate Christmas, in your family, you did not have the means to do such a foolish thing.
Indeed, before your marriage to the High Judge of London, Lord Richard Turpin, you were nothing more than a burden on your poor family. Not that your parents had ever made you feel like one, but you were growing old without finding shoes that fit you, which had ended up alarming them. What is a woman if she is not married ?
And who would marry you if you were nothing more than an old maid who had lost her freshness ?
Judge Turpin, obviously.
You had been afraid at first, but you also knew that refusing would be foolish. You were past the age of being able to wait for your soulmate and when your father died, you would have ended up at best in a hospice, at worst on the streets of London. So you had accepted Richard's proposal reluctantly, worried about the trap you had closed on yourself of your own accord.
The wedding had taken place quickly and you had resigned yourself to being locked in a golden cage and to giving him the heirs he needed, because you were not naive, you knew that was the only reason why he had rushed the marriage with a complete stranger.
Except that night, he didn't touch you. Nor the following ones. After your wedding, when he had brought you back to the manor and shown you the room where you would sleep, he had gone out, leaving room for a maid who had helped you change. She had told you that Richard would come back later because it was his room and you had shivered with fear, except that when he returned, he had chastely kissed you on the forehead before ordering you to go to bed.
You had obeyed, expecting him to exercise his right as a husband, but he had said in a cold voice :
"You will be mine, but not by force. You will be because you want to be," and he had blown out the candle.
You still remember thinking that you would never be his, except that you already were, by law. And later, it was your heart that would decide that he wanted to be entirely hers.
Two years later, you gave birth to your first child, a son, an heir. A difficult pregnancy, a delivery that had almost left you for dead, but you had survived to the greatest relief of Richard who could never have imagined continuing to live without you. That night, as he forced you to eat a few mouthfuls of broth to regain your strength, he had confessed to you that he didn't know how he had managed to live until now before you.
When five years later, you were pregnant again, against all expectations given your advanced age for a lady but also because of the scars left by your previous pregnancy, Richard had made sure that nothing could happen to you. You couldn't even get up to go pee without being followed by the old governess who reported all your nonsense to him like a zealous employee... except that you knew that she did it mainly because of the maternal love she had for your husband and that she had become very attached to you, the woman who had managed to make the merciless judge of London human.
Richard and you complemented each other perfectly; he was the authority and you were the gentleness. He punished, you comforted and waited for him to leave for work to lift the punishments.
If only Christmas didn't exist.
Except that after the birth of your first child, you had insisted on an intimate Christmas at the manor. Just the two of you and your son and later your daughter. And Richard, giddy with the love he felt for you, had agreed. But he still hated this holiday as much and never let himself get caught up in it, even if he tried to hide it more or less skilfully for the sake of his children.
"Woman, I swear that if you add one more garland, you will sleep in another room," he growled when he saw you decorating the banister.
"Well that's not what the manor lacks," you replied without looking up.
He rolled his eyes, mumbling something that sounded like "Ah ! women," when your little girl came running to throw herself into his arms.
He bit his tongue to keep from reprimanding her for running like a wild girl through the corridors of the manor. She was only six, much more impetuous than her brother, unimpressed by her illustrious father and showing him a love as overflowing as yours that always melted him, even if he was careful not to show it.
"Father, I want you to teach us a Christmas carol," she demanded enthusiastically.
Richard's gaze darkened. You gave him a warning look. If you were used to walking on eggshells when it came to Christmas, it was harder for children who didn't understand their father's aversion to this holiday.
You, of course, knew. His painful childhood, those holidays locked in his room while his parents feasted with their prestigious guests, the laughter that echoed while he opened the only gift he never received at that time, the one from his governess.
"I don't know any Christmas carols," he said, trying to control his tone.
"But you're old, you should know plenty," your daughter answered with the candour of a child her age.
"My dear, you should ask your brother. He would love to teach you the ones he knows," you intervened so as not to make Richard more uncomfortable than he already was.
Fortunately, your daughter was not a child who was too difficult to convince, and she went in search of her big brother who would have to sacrifice his game with his toy soldiers.
"That's why I didn't want us to celebrate Christmas in my mansion," he grumbled.
You went down the few steps that separated you from him to come and snuggle against his chest.
"Richard, we can't deprive children of Christmas," you said softly.
"And why not ?"
"Because we love them ?" you suggested with a smile.
"I can love them without Christmas. I would love them just as much without this damn Christmas, because they are yours, silly !"
"Well, since you love me so much, make an effort because it makes me happy to offer a little magic to children. I never had the right to it when I was little. I know you don't either, but if you would agree, just for once, to leave the past behind you and focus on what you have now, you could maybe enjoy this holiday."
He rolled his eyes but said nothing, just kissing the top of your head, undoing a strand of hair from your bun with his finger to let it fall down your shoulder.
"You're lucky I love you," he said with a sigh.
"No, you're the lucky one," you replied before going back to decorating the banister.
He would never admit it, but he knew he was the luckiest man to have met you.
"Richard," you called out to him.
He looked up at you, one eyebrow raised in question.
"You know, you've been led to believe that Christmas is just a frivolity, but the truth is, it's a family holiday. And we're here, all together. That's all that matters."
He pondered your words as you made your way upstairs. Shouts could be heard from the playroom and you assumed that the pretend war with the toy soldiers had become a real war between the siblings.
"Tell them that if I have to intervene, Christmas is called off," Richard said behind you.
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. Christmas was in two days and you weren't going to let your grumpy husband cancel it, and even the children knew that.
"Father, father !" his two children shouted in unison as they entered his office.
It was Christmas Eve, the only day when the children were allowed to stay up until midnight, but it was only nine in the morning and Richard could tell it was going to be a long day. He should have canceled Christmas yesterday, when they had given him the chance by bickering like paupers from the slums of London.
"Stop yelling like seagulls," he said angrily, "and what's the use of me hiring the most expensive and famous tutors if they can't teach you how to knock on a door ?" he added, looking at them sternly.
"Excuse me, father," they said in unison.
"Why all the fuss ?" he asked, inviting them to come and sit on his lap.
They didn't need to be asked twice to join him.
"Look what mother gave us ?" your son said, showing him an old account book.
"Can you read it to us tonight, father ?" your daughter asked, giving him her doe-eyed look.
He was about to answer that he didn't read that kind of book, but he stopped himself just in time. Your words the night before had kept him busy for a long part of the night, and he was determined to make an effort. For them. For you.
"Very well, but only if you finish your plates without protesting tonight and if I don't hear you arguing. You are brother and sister, behave as such, not like animals in a circus. Understood ?"
They nodded, kissing him each in turn on the cheek before returning to their games. Meanwhile, Richard, alone in his office, watched London stretch out before him with a smile on his lips.
That evening, he participated awkwardly, but sincerely in the party. He even surprised himself by enjoying himself, especially when the children presented you with a Christmas play that they had rehearsed since a story you had told them at the beginning of the month.
When it was almost midnight, Richard had an arm around the children who had fallen asleep against him on the sofa listening to him read the Christmas story, and another around you who was dozing, his head resting on his chest.
"You were right," he whispered so as not to wake them.
"I know," you answered, raising your head to look at him, "about what ?" you asked anyway.
He let out a rare laugh before kissing you tenderly.
"That if I focused on the present, I could enjoy this holiday.
You kissed him back, radiant.
"You see, it's not too late to create new memories for yourself. Happy memories."
"You're the one who makes me happy. And them," he said, looking down at your children.
You rested your head against his chest, your hand caressing your daughter and son's heads affectionately. It had taken Richard Turpin a while, but he had come to understand how much the family he had built with you was essential to him and that it was what made Christmas magical.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Christopher Brandon loved Christmas. Even more so since you were married and you had made him the father of five beautiful children. Three sons and two daughters who had inherited your sweet face and noble character, except for your eldest who looked exactly like his father, but who had your natural curiosity.
For Christopher, Christmas was the warmest holiday of the year. You and the children were by his side, and if he didn't organize any special parties at the Delaford and he didn't accept any invitations to spend this time with you, his domain was always filled with joy and laughter.
On this December 24th, the house was beautifully decorated thanks to you. The big tree in the living room added a little more warmth to your family celebration and the children were having fun by the fire. Your eldest son was playing the piano while your youngest daughter accompanied him by singing a Christmas carol that Christopher had taught him earlier in the day.
Your second son was looking out the window praying that it would start snowing, he who dreamed of a white Christmas to have snowball fights with his brothers and sisters and snowmen with his father.
Christopher was looking at them with affection, but he had this little smile, imperceptible to anyone else, but not to you. He was preparing something, you were sure of it. However, no matter how much you had pestered him all day to know what it was, he had refused to answer you.
"Dad, can we open the presents ?" your youngest son asked him. "Oh, yes," your daughters chimed in.
"In an hour, after dessert," you replied with a soft smile.
"And here I thought you were eager to see what I was preparing," Christopher teased you.
You gently punched him on the shoulder, but with a nimble gesture, he grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.
"Don't set a bad example for the children," he told you with a smile.
You rolled your eyes, returning his big smile.
Finally, at the children's insistence, you agreed to let them open their presents at the same time as dessert was served. Their smiles, their laughter filled you and Christopher with joy. He then got up and left the large living room under your surprised gaze to come back with a small package in his hands.
At least you thought it was a package, but when he approached, you saw fur. Fur fluttering.
"Dad ! You brought us a dog !" your youngest daughter exclaimed.
Your five children rushed over to him and your eldest took the little ball of fur in his arms to pet it to the youngest while warning them to be gentle. You couldn't help but notice how much he looked like his father.
"So that's what you were hiding," you said with a smile as you sat back down on the couch, the children at your feet playing with their new friend.
"They've been asking for years for a dog that wouldn't be used for guarding or hunting, but just to keep them company. John's dog had puppies and he kept this one for me," he said with a soft smile as he watched the young puppy shyly move into his new surroundings.
"What's his name ?" your eldest daughter asked as she turned to you, her auburn curls dancing around her head.
"It's up to you," Christopher replied.
That was all it took for the kids to get into a heated discussion over the dog's name.
"And to think we almost had a quiet evening," you said, feigning exasperation.
"Oh, but this was all part of my plan, Mrs. Brandon."
"What plan ?" you asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"We've got an hour, while they argue, make up, and decide on a name. Enough time for me to give you your present."
He stood up, holding out his hand to you with a mischievous glint in his eye, and you knew that didn't meanonly one thing: the library books would witness your antics again.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Your ancestors are so funny," you said, closing the diary of Colonel Brandon's wife.
Sinclair turned to you with a smile, Richard Turpin's diary in his hands.
"This one belonged to my great-great-great grandfather, the High Judge of London."
"Do you think it's as interesting as your great-great-great grandmother's ?"
"Oh yes," he said with a big smile, "it's more... juicy."
"Juicy ?"
"She was rather reserved about everything to do with sex, but he goes into detail and believe me, she wasn't shy in bed at all !"
"Sinclair ! You're talking about your ancestors," you gently scolded him.
"But it's true !" he defended himself.
What had started as a search for a Christmas book in Sinclair's vast library had turned into a dive into memories from another time. You had found Colonel Brandon's journal by chance, the one that chronicled a time before his wife, in the army and Sinclair had then decided to share with you the intimate lives of all his ancestors, although he could not go back further than Christopher Brandon.
"What a treasure to have preserved all his memories," you said as he pulled another notebook from a chest.
"Lionel had Brandon's," he said, mentioning his rich and eccentric cousin, "but he didn't find them very interesting so he gave them to me. I never told him what Richard's contained, he would have been dying to have my hands on them and read the craziest positions he made his wife take," he said nonchalantly.
"Sinclair !"
"Oh, don't be such a prude. You're shy in public too, but when we're in bed..."
"Sinclair Bryant ! I swear if you write that in a diary I'll kill you !"
He laughed as he pulled you against him.
"It would be for prosperity," he whispered in your ear.
"Our child could find it."
He pulled away, his eyes wide as you clapped your hand over your mouth.
"Our child ?" he repeated, looking at you intensely.
You lowered your head, guilty. You'd known for three days, but you wanted to wait until Christmas struck twelve to tell him. But you weren't far from four after all.
"You're going to be a father, Sinclair," you said, placing your hands on his chest.
"I... Me ?"
"Yes, you big idiot," you replied, tapping him gently on the shoulder, "who else do you want it to be ?"
"How long have you known ?"
"Three days, I wanted to surprise you, as a Christmas present."
He shook his head, closing his eyes. After his divorce, he thought he could never be happy again. Then, he had met you one evening when your train was stopped in the middle of the tracks because a tree had fallen due to the storm that was raging that day. He was coming back from Manchester where he had to go for his job, you were coming back after yet another job interview for a job as a teacher. A new refusal that had depressed you more than usual. He had seen your big wet eyes, but also the strength with which you fought not to let any tears fall. You started talking, he made you laugh, he appreciated your simplicity and he thought that maybe that was what he needed: someone simple who knew how to appreciate the little things in life.
You had parted ways that night without knowing that fate had decided that you could never live without each other again. You had crossed paths several times, Sinclair had helped you get a job thanks to his many contacts, he had invited you to eat with him several times, introduced you to his parents - and to his great relief, his mother had immediately liked you unlike the demonic bitch who had broken his heart -, you had introduced him to your parents, and finally, one summer afternoon, in a gondola in Venice, he had proposed to you.
And today, you were going to make him a father.
"So, you're not so disappointed anymore about missing Lionel's big Christmas party, right ?" you said, smiling.
The doctor had warned you that the pregnancy could be complicated and that you should stay calm. Your bad cough had arrived just in time to find an excuse not to attend the party without having to confess the real reason to your husband.
"Maybe it'll be twins," Sinclair said, placing his hand on your stomach.
"I'd have enough on my plate with two Bryant," you joked.
Except that once again, Sinclair's skills as a forecaster had not been wrong. Eight months later, his mother and his aunt would no longer be the only twins in the family. Now there would be two beautiful little boys as curious as their father and gentler than their mother. But you didn't know that yet. It was for later, far long after this Christmas Party.
9KLR2 on Chapter 1 Sun 01 Dec 2024 02:50PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Dec 2024 08:07PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Dec 2024 07:53PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Dec 2024 08:05PM UTC
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Lazaretto_Outlaw on Chapter 2 Mon 02 Dec 2024 09:03AM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 2 Mon 02 Dec 2024 08:06PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 2 Mon 02 Dec 2024 08:06PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 2 Mon 02 Dec 2024 08:10PM UTC
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KateMulgrew on Chapter 3 Tue 03 Dec 2024 05:34AM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 3 Tue 03 Dec 2024 08:11PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 3 Fri 13 Dec 2024 06:48PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 3 Sun 15 Dec 2024 12:08AM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 4 Fri 13 Dec 2024 07:00PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 4 Sun 15 Dec 2024 12:07AM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 5 Fri 13 Dec 2024 07:15PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 7 Fri 13 Dec 2024 07:27PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 7 Sun 15 Dec 2024 12:07AM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 11 Fri 13 Dec 2024 07:45PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 11 Sun 15 Dec 2024 12:06AM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 12 Fri 13 Dec 2024 08:18PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 13 Fri 13 Dec 2024 08:22PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 13 Sun 15 Dec 2024 12:05AM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 16 Tue 17 Dec 2024 12:37PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 16 Tue 17 Dec 2024 05:31PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 16 Tue 17 Dec 2024 05:33PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 19 Sat 21 Dec 2024 02:16AM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 19 Sat 21 Dec 2024 12:05PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 20 Sun 22 Dec 2024 05:58PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 21 Sun 22 Dec 2024 06:06PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 22 Sun 22 Dec 2024 06:11PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 22 Mon 23 Dec 2024 04:11PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 22 Tue 24 Dec 2024 10:35PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 22 Wed 25 Dec 2024 12:46PM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 23 Tue 24 Dec 2024 02:01AM UTC
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LadyBird2 on Chapter 24 Tue 24 Dec 2024 10:33PM UTC
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evaaans23 on Chapter 24 Wed 25 Dec 2024 12:45PM UTC
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