Chapter Eleven

In his dreams, fire spat and cannons boomed overhead until the ground shook. He threw himself down on grassy earth that was more mud and blood than anything else, pressed his hands over his eyes, and closed his eyes, praying that it would stop.

And then it was morning, and Arthur found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, his tangled, sweaty sheets knotted around him.

He blinked, taking some time to come back from the dream world into the present world. For now, sunshine streamed in through the half-open curtains at the window, all red-gold sunrise and cobbled pink skies. It was somewhere between six and seven, he guessed. His valet wouldn't come to wake him for another hour yet, and the other guests would likely still be asleep, too.

Sleep was something Arthur would not be getting any more of. His head was mercifully clear, but his mind still rang with the muffled booms of cannons and gunfire, and the screams of the dead and dying.

Swinging back the covers, he stepped out of bed and moved over to the window, stretching. He could summon his valet to get him dressed and ready for the day, of course, but at this time Julius would be downstairs with the other servants, taking his breakfast, imagining that he had plenty of time left to himself. It seemed unfair to drag him away.

With a rush, the events of last night came back – Felicity's beautiful, simple and sweet playing, immediately contrasted by Miranda's banging around and warbling. At the memory, Arthur's head throbbed, and he cursed quietly to himself.

Fresh air, he told himself firmly. Fresh air is what you need.

He pulled on a pair of breeches and plain boots, easy enough to get on by himself, tugged on a shirt and brown waistcoat, ran his fingers through his hair, and decided that that would do.

I'll have time to neaten myself up before breakfast, he thought.

Outside, Arthur's headache only intensified. The sun was strong for that time of day, making his eyes smart and his scar throb. The fresh air only seemed to chill his lungs – if such a thing were possible – and every step grew harder and harder to take.

He made it to one of the low-walled gardens before his strength gave out, and plopped heavily down on a stone bench, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

How much more of this must I take? He thought, with a fresh wave of self-pitying misery. I don't know how much more pain I can manage. I disappoint everyone around me. My mother, my friends… even my fiancé said I wasn't the man she meant to marry. If she is pursuing me now, it's because I'm an earl, and no other reason.

He swallowed hard, tasting bile in the back of his throat. Where would he go now? What would happen next? Would he while away his years in this house, with his mother and Lady Lucy aging around him, until he gave up even the pretence of searching for a wife, of trying to be whole again?

I'm tired of it all, he thought viciously, the pain in his head pounding in time to the blood rushing in his ears. I'm tired of hating what I see in the mirror, tired of feeling like half a man, tired of the pitying stares, the eyes that slip away from me, tired of…

"Lord Lanwood?"

He jerked upright at the all-too-familiar voice, a motion which made his head feel as though it were going to split in two.

Sure enough, there she was.

Felicity Thornhill stood on the other side of the low wall, and he guessed that she'd been sitting on the mirror-image of the stone bench he sat upon, a hedge running between them. A large sketching-book was tucked under her arm, and a pencil was propped behind her ear. She was dressed simply and hurriedly, much like he was, and he wondered whether she, too, couldn't sleep.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he heard himself say. His voice sounded thick and clumsy, even to his own ears.

"You were… you were groaning," she said delicately. "Should I fetch someone for you? Your mother, perhaps, or Lucy? Or a footman?"

Colour rushed to his face. "N-No, thank you, Miss Thornhill. I'm quite alright. That is, I'm not, but it's nothing I haven't faced before. A megrim," he added, feeling that he should say something.

She nodded understandingly. "They can be awful. I had a friend who was all but blinded by hers, and nobody seemed to understand. Even her own mother kept saying things like, ‘Well, when I have a headache, I just do just about everything I want'. It was very tiresome."

Arthur smiled despite himself. "Yes, I don't think people understand the difference. Do you suffer from megrims yourself?"

"Thankfully, no. Headaches, sometimes, but rarely megrims. May I join you?"

He hadn't expected that, and so missed a bit. He smiled weakly, gesturing to the empty half of the bench beside him. Miss Thornhill delicately lifted her skirts and stepped over the low wall in a most unladylike way, and he was forced to hide a smile. She settled herself next to him, and for a moment, they just sat there together, side by side, enjoying a companionable silence.

"I very much enjoyed your pianoforte playing last night," he heard himself say. It seemed polite to say something. Arthur enjoyed sitting in silence, but often people seemed to be uncomfortable with that, preferring instead to make small talk and keep the conversation going.

She smiled wryly. "Thank you. I was pleased enough with my performance. That is, until Miss Sinclair started to play."

He flinched. Of course, Miranda had gone out of her way to make Miss Thornhill feel inferior. She'd done it often when they were courting and then engaged. It was strange to think how he'd never noticed, only smiled to himself, thinking of how superior his fiancé was in her playing and taste, and almost laughing at the poor ladies shrinking in their seats, feeling silly.

"Miss Sinclair receives plenty of praise, I think," he said tartly. "She doesn't have a great love of music, no matter how hard she pretends."

Not a very gentlemanly thing to say.

He was aware of Miss Thornhill watching him curiously.

"Is your megrim feeling any better?" she asked, after a pause. He shook his head, which was a mistake, because it made his ears ring.

"May… may I ask how they came to be? I got the impression from others that you didn't always suffer from megrims."

He bit his lip. "The war."

She looked away. "Oh. I am sorry, I… I didn't mean to pry. Mama says it's not seemly for ladies to be curious."

He chuckled at that. "I think curiosity is human nature, and young ladies are, as far as I'm aware, humans. There was one particular battle, Miss Thornhill. Full of cannon fire and gunshots, enough to make your ears ring. I lost a great many friends there; some bodies were never found. I beg your pardon; I don't mean to offend."

She shook her head. "You're not offending me."

He continued, almost as if some outside force were controlling him.

"I was struck in the head, I'm not sure by what; if it were a cannon-ball or even a gunshot, I would not have a head left. A flying piece of debris, perhaps. I remember nothing after that, only noise and pain. My eardrums were burst, and that took a long time to heal. My head was cracked open, and I was lucky not to die. I've seen men with similar injuries die right out in the field. The surgeons warned about side effects – they worried about my vision and balance, although they are mostly unchanged. The megrims, though, come thick and fast. Certain things can set them off, as can my own wretched mood."

There was a silence after that, and Arthur bit his lip. "I am sorry, I shouldn't weigh you down with all of this."

"You must tell someone," she said levelly. "I don't know where I would be without my friend Lucy. She listens to me when nobody else will."

He flashed a quick, relieved smile at her. "Thank you, Miss Thornhill."

Their gazes held for what seemed like moments but could really only have been a few seconds. Just long enough for him to notice flecks of purest gold in Felicity's green eyes.

Miss Thornhill, you wretch!

Then she looked away, glancing down at her hands, lying folded together in her lap, resting on her sketch book.

"I know it's none of my concern, and really I should not be offering," she said slowly, "But some of our servants had trouble with headaches and megrims. Our cook, especially, was very ill. She'd have to lie in bed for hours. Mama said she was just lazy, but I saw how she looked when she had one of her megrims. As you know, I rather like botany, and some herbs have been proven to ease the pain of headaches. I made up a tea for some of the servants, and they said that it eased their megrims."

He looked sharply at her. "Really?"

She flushed. "It's just a herb tea. I've been told it tastes awful, but they said it worked. If you want… I mean, if it isn't overstepping… I could maybe…"

"Felicity! There you are!"

Mrs. Thornhill's sibilant voice echoed across the gardens, making them both jump. Miss Thornhill almost seemed to shrink into herself, holding her sketchbook to her chest.

Mrs. Thornhill herself appeared from behind a large, roundish hedge, hands on her hips. She blinked to see Arthur there but didn't let it slow her down. She came striding towards them, and Felicity seemed to hunch further down.

"Good morning, Lord Lanwood," the woman said smoothly. "I do hope my errant daughter isn't disturbing you. I brought her out here to paint the sunrise coming up over the house – I thought it would be a pretty picture and would suit her collection of watercolours."

"Oh, I didn't know you painted, Miss Thornhill."

The girl went red. "I… I don't, much. I don't have a talent for it."

"Would you not say, Lord Lanwood," Mrs Thornhill said, with a dangerous tone to her voice, "that painting and drawing is a fine accomplishment for a young lady?"

He blinked. There had to be a right and wrong answer here, but Arthur only felt as if he were being cornered.

"I suppose so," he managed. "If the lady herself likes it."

That was apparently not the answer Mrs. Thornhill had wanted to hear. She scowled for a half-second before remembering where she was and replacing the scowl with a sickly smile.

"Let me see your drawing, then, Felicity."

Mutely, Miss Thornhill offered her sketchbook. Her mother took it, flipping back the first page.

Arthur saw the drawing. It was a smudged, blocky square that seemed to be a house, lopsided, with a swathes of what might have been meant to be the garden, only it rather looked like a cabbage patch. He had to look away, biting his lip to keep back a chuckle.

"A poor effort, Felicity," Mrs. Thornhill said, voice like ice. Felicity dropped her head, and Arthur flinched. "You haven't even started to paint in the sunrise, and now you've lost the light. It's full day now, and the sunrise is almost gone.

"Sorry, Mama."

"The fault is mine, Mrs. Thornhill," Arthur said hastily. "I didn't realise that Miss Thornhill was sketching here, and I interrupted her. She was telling me about some of her herbal remedies, and…"

That was the wrong thing to say. Mrs. Thornhill's head jerked back, and she shot a furious glare at her daughter.

"Did she really? Well, we shall trespass no further on your time, Lord Lanwood. Felicity, come along at once. You may tear up that drawing when we get inside."

Miss Thornhill got to her feet, dropping a lopsided curtsey to Arthur without looking at him, and scurried away. As they went, he could clearly hear Mrs. Thornhill scolding her daughter.

"What did I say about boring gentlemen with your wretched plants? Nobody wants to hear about that, Felicity! This drawing is a disgrace. I can't display this. You are a disgrace!"

That left a bad taste in his mouth. Getting to his feet, Arthur turned and headed back to the house.