Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

T he inclement weather matched Frederick’s mood. A grey and somber sky threatened rain, the clouds heavy and low as he walked through the estate grounds toward the family graveyard.

His letter to Gemma remained unanswered, days passing slowly without even a hint of a response. Her continued silence consumed him.

Today of all days, the constant hollow ache in his chest seemed unbearable. The anniversary of Helen’s death loomed over him with a heavy shadow, and the thought of Helen, her bright eyes and laughter snuffed out far too early, stung him in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for a long time.

He paused at the entrance to the graveyard, his heart tightening at the sight of his grandmother already kneeling by Helen’s grave, arranging a small bouquet of pale lilies—their sister’s favorite flowers.

She wore her grief quietly, a touch of sadness softened by the grace that always accompanied her, but Frederick saw the way her hand lingered over Helen’s name, the tremble as she brushed a finger across the carved letters.

The Dowager Duchess looked up as he approached, her gaze filled with unspoken words. She rose carefully, leaning on her cane as she nodded in greeting, her voice soft and tender.

“Frederick.”

“Grandmother,” he replied, bowing his head slightly, his voice rougher than usual. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but her eyes told him that words would be unnecessary, perhaps even unwelcome.

For a moment, they stood together in silence, the chill of the wind rustling the fallen leaves around them. She placed a gloved hand gently on his arm, squeezing it with a strength that belied her years.

“I will leave you with her,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. She lingered, her gaze holding his, and Frederick could see a trace of sadness there that was reserved solely for him. “Take your time.”

Frederick nodded, feeling a pang of regret for the hurt he had caused her by sending Gemma away. He knew his grandmother had seen something in Gemma that no other woman possessed; something she had longed to see in him, too, perhaps. But he held his silence as she turned and made her way back down the path, her small figure disappearing into the misty shroud of trees.

He kneeled beside Helen’s grave, running his fingers over the delicate carvings, the memories of their childhood flooding back to him. Her laughter, her defiance, and her joy that had once made Blackridge feel like a true home. It had been over a decade, but the pain was as raw as ever.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, the words breaking through the tightness in his chest. “If I could change things… if I could bring you back, I would. Every day I think of what he did to you—of what I let happen.”

The quiet was thick, the words echoing through his mind with each breath, each one laden with shame, with anger, and with a yearning that had no end. He leaned against the cold stone, feeling an emptiness that went beyond grief and guilt.

“I no longer know what I am doing, Helen,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I feel as though I am constantly chasing after what I have lost and holding onto the things that haunt me, and I fear I am losing myself.”

He closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to Gemma, to the ache her absence had left behind. She had, in her quiet, stubborn way, filled a part of him he hadn’t realized was empty until she was gone. And now, all he was left with were the memories, just as it was with Helen.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see the Baron Rowen, Peter Stanhope—Helen’s love, and the father of Helen’s child, if the infant had survived—standing nearby, dressed somberly, his gaze resting on the grave.

Frederick hadn’t seen him since last year’s anniversary, yet the baron had always come without fail, honoring the woman he’d loved in the only way he could.

“Frederick,” Peter said softly, inclining his head in greeting. “It is good to see you.”

Frederick rose, nodding in return. “Peter. I was not certain you would come this year.”

Peter managed a small, wistful smile. “I made a promise to her once that I would never forget. It is a promise I have kept all these years, though it has grown harder with time.” He sighed, his gaze softening. “But I see you have not forgotten her either.”

Frederick shook his head, feeling the familiar pang of regret. “No. And I do not believe that I ever will.”

They fell silent, both men connected by a mutual grief, bound by the memory of a woman they had each lost in their own way. Peter broke the silence, his gaze steady as he looked at Frederick.

“You loved her deeply,” Peter said, his tone gentle. “But you have punished yourself long enough. You were young, and powerless to change what happened. Holding on to that guilt… it will not bring her back.”

“It is not so simple, Peter. I made another poor choice involving someone else… someone who reminded me of Helen in her strength and her resolve. And because of that choice I have driven her away, just as my father did Helen.”

Peter’s expression softened, his gaze sharpening with a touch of understanding. “It is a woman you are referring to, is it not?”

Frederick hesitated, then nodded, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I made a decision that forced her to go away, thinking it would save her. But now… I cannot bear her absence. I find myself regretting it more than I can say.”

Peter placed a firm hand on Frederick’s shoulder, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “Then go to her. Do not make the same mistakes your father did. Helen would not want you to waste your life in the same way.”

Frederick met his gaze, seeing a spark of hope in Peter’s eyes that he hadn’t seen in years. The baron’s words resonated, peeling away the layers of guilt and fear that had held him back. He realized he was, indeed, punishing himself, binding himself to the past when he had a chance to live and to love.

Peter patted Frederick on the back, his touch comforting. “Frederick, you deserve happiness, and I believe Helen would also want that for you. More than anything, she would want you to truly live your life, to find someone who brings you the joy she never had. Let go of the past, my friend.”

Frederick swallowed, the weight of Peter’s words was a soothing balm to his burning soul, easing the hurt that had lodged itself in his heart for too long. For the first time since Gemma had left, he felt a glimmer of clarity; a sense of purpose that had eluded him.

“Thank you, Peter,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Peter gave him a small, reassuring smile, then stepped back, nodding once more before taking his leave. As he walked away, Frederick stood there, his gaze fixed on Helen’s grave, a sudden surge of determination swelling within him.

It was time to let go. Time to leave the ghosts behind.

With a final, lingering glance at Helen’s grave, Frederick turned and made his way back to the estate, his heart pounding with a renewed sense of purpose. He moved quickly, as though the very act of deciding had given him strength. When he entered Blackridge he went straight to his study, ordering his valet to prepare for an immediate journey.

As he sat at his desk, penning a note to his grandmother to explain his sudden departure, a feeling of anticipation filled him. He didn’t know what he would find when he reached London—whether Gemma would forgive him, whether she would even see him—but he knew he couldn’t live another day without trying to rectify his mistake.

He folded the letter, sealing it carefully, then rose to his feet. His heart was now resolute, fueled by a desperate glimmer of hope and certainty.

He could not allow another moment to slip by without fighting for the woman he loved.

In less than an hour, Frederick mounted his horse, riding south with a single purpose, leaving the shadowed halls of Blackridge behind him, his mind and heart both fixed firmly on Gemma and the chance to make things right.

The road stretched monotonously before him, each day riding alongside his carriage, his impatience simmering with every mile. The sky was clouded, trees thick on either side of the narrow road as they navigated the rugged countryside. Frederick’s thoughts drifted constantly to Gemma, to the way her laughter had always brightened his darkest days, how her clever words often left him unable to keep up his guarded facade.

Each inn they stopped at brought him rest, but no relief. His nights were restless, plagued by memories of her—their quiet walks, the moments he had let himself become vulnerable.

Now he was impatient, nearly desperate to reach her, the memory of her trust in him yanking on his conscience.

Days stretched into nearly a week, and by the time they reached London, Frederick’s weariness became eclipsed by the rush of knowing that he was close.

He barely allowed himself to settle into his family’s house on Grosvenor Square before setting out to find answers. Just after dark, he made his way to the gentlemen’s club, keeping his questions discreet as he inquired about the Clarke family and Treston estate.

A familiar face—a half-drunk noble whose name escaped him—overheard his inquiries and stumbled over with a broad, hazy grin.

“Oh, you are looking for the Treston estate, are you?” the man asked, slurring his words as he swayed unsteadily. “I know the place, went to a soirée there just last week, though not much of a party, if you ask me. The place is close to Salisbury, if you are that keen.”

Frederick offered a smile, hiding his relief.

“Thank you,” he said, signaling to the barkeep. “A drink for my friend here.”

The man’s eyes sparkled as he accepted. Frederick made polite conversation, watching his companion drift off into his drink before thanking him and leaving.

Back at Grosvenor Square he barely touched his supper, his mind filled with anticipation.

He retired early, though sleep was elusive, every creak and shift in the silent house a reminder of how close he was to her.