Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

" J ulian! "

The final remnants of Ester's voice faded with the wind.

Julian strode blindly down the track, his mind a tempest of curses—against himself, against his father, against God. The path dipped into the hollow below, but he cared not where it led. The roar of the sea grew louder with each step, the sharp cries of gulls punctuating the dissonance in his mind.

Behind him, somewhere out of sight, was Ester. Her family. Her future, slipping away like sand between his fingers. How could she not understand the terrible risk she was asking of him?

One slip and her life could be snuffed out in an instant. At least this way, she might enjoy a few more years. Perhaps even many, if fortune were kind. Yet she wanted him to forget the curse and trust her.

But how could he? How could he wake each morning dreading whether this might be the day? The day she wouldn't wake beside him. The day a horse he had brushed, a hand he had shaken, would leave another soul choking, struggling for life as it slipped away.

"Good day, Your Grace," Harper's voice penetrated the fog.

Julian looked up. Harper's breeches were wet and there was a slime of seaweed stuck to his shoe that he had clearly not noticed.

"Have you been paddling, Harper?" Julian asked in a monotone, unable to summon any genuine curiosity.

Harper glanced down at his sodden state, then back up. "I have been searching the beach, for any sign of our belongings."

"And?"

"Much has washed ashore, but not... anything relevant to Your Grace." He looked over his shoulder, down towards the glittering sea and the arc of a rocky beach. "Actually, I was returning to see if you had any further orders."

Julian stared past him, his gaze drifting toward the endless expanse of water, cold and indifferent. "I wish to leave this place as soon as possible. If we can pay one of these fishermen to carry us along the coast, all well and good. Otherwise, I hope to be on the road on horseback, or carriage, or cart, by nightfall. I do not care which."

Harper inclined his head, casting a glance back toward the farmhouse. "I will speak to the Morgans. They seem to have some sway here, being the largest landholders, and their elder acts as an unofficial leader for the community."

"Fine. You will find me below when you have anything to tell me," Julian said, waving vaguely towards the village.

"And Miss Ester? She will be coming with us?"

"She will not. And it is not your place to ask," Julian shot back.

Again, Harper bowed his head in acquiescence. "Yes, Your Grace."

Julian turned his back on the man and continued walking. He passed through the tiny hamlet, ignoring the tugged forelocks and respectful greetings. His hands, both bare now, remained clasped behind his back. Despite the village bustling with men, women, and children going about their daily routines, he moved through it all, a distant figure among them, as though he didn't truly belong in their simple world.

Julian decided to remove himself from the villagers entirely, to avoid any risk. He walked towards the stony beach. There were shards of wood washing up in the surf, rags that may once have been clothes. Pieces of rope coiled in amongst the seaweed that coated the slick rocks at the water's edge. A stream carved a deep channel through the hills above the beach, winding its way out into the sea.

As Julian approached, two rough-looking men clambered out of the stream carrying an intact wooden chest between them.

Julian stopped, startled momentarily. They froze too. Then, as one, dropped the box and took off running along the beach. He frowned after them, watching them turn and lose themselves in the long grass that fringed the stony shore, where the hillside began.

He turned his gaze back to the box which had made a glassy clinking sound as it fell. They may have thought to take some salvage for themselves, he reasoned, despite there being survivors of the shipwreck. Survivors meant taking anything that washed up was theft.

Truthfully, if they had run off with the box, he would not have bothered to pursue them nor report them. He simply could not bring himself to care.

He smiled bleakly, crouching to open the box. Inside the box were rows of glass vials, one missing, the rest stoppered with wax and labeled in a neat hand. A waxed package in a compartment next to the vials contained papers by the feel. Beneath it were smaller waxed packages, with the grainy feel of powder inside.

He lifted up one of the vials, peering at the label, the words blurring slightly in the dull light. Thornapple. His brow furrowed. He returned the vial to its place and reached for another. The same odd name greeted him. Belladonna. The word seemed distant, unreal, as if it belonged to another time or place.

He placed the vials back in the box, a sense of growing discomfort tugging at the edges of his awareness. His gaze fell on a folded slip of paper tucked beneath the vials, wax-sealed. Slowly, he opened it, his breath shallow as his eyes began to scan the paper.

Above, it was signed Christoper Harper . Below, it contained names. The names of Julian's staff—Sylvian S. Crammond, Molly T. Peters, Mary J. Grypes. Lower still, Kingsley, Berkeley, Napier. Beside each, there read a few other words, except Napier and Berkeley's, whose names were also marked with a cross.

Turning over the page, he found even more names.

The first read, Ester. Beside it, Monkshood . Tea . Instant .

His hand faltered for a second, his breath stuttering in his throat. Monkshood —the word sent a shiver down his spine. Where had he seen that before? The name rattled in his mind, just out of reach, like a shadow he couldn't quite grasp.

"Monkshood. Monkshood." He frowned, trying to place it. It tugged at him, something old and buried deep in his memory.

And then it hit him.

Suddenly, his heart stilled in his chest, the world tipping on its axis. His pulse thundered in his ears. Monkshood . He had seen that name before. A long, forgotten memory flashed in his mind—he was a boy, creeping through the halls late at night, drawn by the eerie wailing of his father on the night of his brother's death. He had passed his father's study and caught a glimpse of a vial on the floor. Monkshood . It was partially erased. He had misread it as Monkey . But now, standing here, that childish misunderstanding twisted into a dark, suffocating truth. Belladonna, Thornapple, Monkshood. These weren't mere plants. They were toxins.

His brother hadn't been a victim of the family curse.

He had been… poisoned.

The realization slammed into him like a fist to the gut, driving the air from his lungs. His knees weakened as a fresh wave of nausea crept up his throat. His father—had it been his father? Had the curse been nothing more than a smokescreen to cover up something far darker with the man? A man who despised his one son so much, he was willing to take the life of the other in cold blood? Or was it merely some kind of accident?

Julian now remembered Harper's claim to have been apprenticed to an apothecary. It all fit together now, like pieces of a dark puzzle snapping into place, tightening around Julian's heart like a vice.

His blood ran cold. He gripped the paper so tightly his knuckles whitened. Monkshood. The same poison that had killed his brother.

No. No, no, no.

There was no curse. It was all a sick ruse started by his father and continued by none other than Harper.

And in each case, Julian knew with absolute certainty, the deaths would be blamed on his supposed ‘curse'. And with those deaths, he knew that his desire for isolation would have grown until he would have been unwilling to countenance human company of any kind. Except, perhaps, Harper. How much power would that have put into the manservant's hands? Julian knew that in such a state, blaming himself for the death of so many good people, he would have been unwilling to deal with any affairs of his estates or business interests. And if Harper was there, efficient and ready to assist, then Julian would have handed over everything to him. Harper would have become the de facto Duke, leaving the poor cursed wretch that was the real Duke lurking in the shadows.

Suddenly, a sickening realization swept over Julian. His eyes immediately began scanning each of the remaining vials in the box, his hands moving faster, more desperate.

He couldn't find it. Monkshood wasn't there.

The missing vial.

Panic surged through him, sharp and wild. Where was it?

Julian dropped the box, his fingers trembling as he frantically searched the ground, his gaze darting across the stony shore, to the grass by the edge of the beach, to the stream that snaked into the sea. His mind raced. Harper. The name gnawed at his thoughts like a curse. Harper must have it. Harper is going to poison Ester.

A sudden flash of light caught his eye—the glint of something small, almost hidden among the reeds near the water's edge. Julian fell to his knees and desperately scrambled toward it, his boots slipping on the slick stones. There, half-buried in the mud, was a vial. His heart stopped.

Monkshood .

It was empty. The poison was gone.

The bile that had threatened earlier now surged in full force. Harper—he must have it. He was going to administer it to Ester. Right now.

Julian's entire body moved before his mind could catch up, surging to his feet with a force that felt almost beyond his control. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath ragged as he started to run, harder and harder toward the Morgan's farm, with murder in his heart.

By the time he reached the farm, he spotted Harper strolling back down the track, a careless whistle escaping his lips.

But his whistle died away the instant he saw the look on Julian's face and the empty vial in his hand. His eyes widened in dread—flicked to Julian's.

In an instant, he turned and sprinted, as though the devil was at his heels. But there was nowhere to escape. Ahead lay the farm, behind was Julian and a track fenced in on either side. Rhys Morgan was emerging from the farm yard, walking arm in arm with Helen.

"Hold him!" Julian suddenly bellowed, "he is a murderer!"

Rhys reacted with the swift, thoughtless vigor of the young. He released Helen's arm and charged towards Harper. The fleeing man tried to dodge but Rhys cannoned into him with all the force of a young bull, sending both of them sprawling to the ground. Helen screamed. Harper thrashed with devilish fury, but Rhys was a man who had spent more time in the fields than he had indoors. Was as fierce as the Welsh hills from which he hailed.

Within moments, Harper found himself pinned to the ground, a bruise blossoming on his chin and another swelling around his eye. For his efforts, Rhys had a trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His face was set with resolute anger.

He glanced up heavily as Julian reached them in a blur of motion, his pulse roaring like a war drum. "Go find Ester!" he commanded of Rhys. Then, without hesitation, he seized Harper by the collar and ripped him away from Rhys, dragging him to his feet with raw force. Rage boiled in his veins, dark and consuming.

Harper let out a strangled cry, trying to twist free, but Julian's grip was iron. He slammed Harper against the barn wall, the sound of bone and wood colliding filling the air with a sickening crack. Harper's legs buckled beneath him, his body hanging limply from Julian's grip like a rag doll.

The fury in Julian's chest roared louder. He didn't think. He struck Harper—once, twice—each blow landing with brutal force until Harper was on his knees, blood flooding down his fractured nose, gasping for breath.

Julian towered over him, breathing hard, his knuckles burning from the impact. "Why?" he growled, voice low and laced with venom. "Why did you do it?"

Harper's eyes flickered up, dazed and filled with a twisted sort of satisfaction, his lips curling into a sneer despite the pain. "Kill me now, why don't you? Touch me with your bare hands. In front of all to see. My soul is black enough that I should die on the spot, shouldn't I?"

"You don't believe that!" Julian roared, shaking him with unrestrained fury. "You orchestrated Napier's death. You were going to do the same to Ester and her family. You bastard, why!"

"Power…" Harper gasped, the word escaping him like a confession torn from his very core.

" Power ?" Julian echoed, horror crashing over him. "That's it? You killed a man and would have killed others for power? Over whom ? Me ?"

"It's so easy for you, isn't it?" Harper sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "With your title and wealth. The Dukes of Windermere. A sick, tainted bloodline, passed from your acolyte father. Yet a Duke is deferred to, no matter his character. Without a title, there's little chance for wealth. Without wealth, your destiny isn't your own. Others stand over you, dictate your path. I wanted the power to shape my own fate!" He coughed, then spat blood to the side. "My father was an earl, but he squandered our fortune on women and gambling. My mother became a seamstress just to feed us and educate me. She married an apothecary, and I learned the skills that could lift me from the gutter and grant me power. I thought that fool Kingsley would be my pawn, but then I met you." He paused, his expression twisted with disdain. "Your superstition, your curse. You deserved it! You don't deserve your wealth and power if you are not prepared to wield it! Neither did your father!"

"That is not an excuse you sick blackguard!" Julian's voice cracked with anger. "It is not enough for what you did—what you planned!"

But Harper was looking beyond him now, a sly smile forming on his lips. Julian turned to see Ester standing in the middle of the farmyard. She looked… healthy. Perhaps he hadn't delivered the poison yet. The Morgans and the Fairchilds were gathering behind her, as the commotion drew more and more faces. Lord Percival was staggering to the front of the crowd, hobbling on his stick. Julian's only warning was Ester's sudden look of alarm.

He turned back to Harper in time to see his hand emerge from a coat pocket clutching a knife. Julian reacted quickly, leaping back as Harper slashed with the blade. Smoothly, he seized the man's wrist, slamming it into the barn wall. But Harper was quick, fumbling with something in his other pocket. With a desperate motion, he flung something—hand opening as a fine spray of white dust filled the air.

It struck Julian's face and a fiery pain enveloped his eyes. He screamed, staggering back, unable to see. Ester cried out in warning and then Harper screamed once in pain. Julian fell to his knees, hearing the chink of metal falling against stone. Then the sound of running footfalls and the roar of a deep, angry Welsh voice shouting in his own language. He was answered by more running feet, urgent voices.

"I can't see!" Julian cried, eyes wide open despite the agony.

His vision was a blanket of blackness. Panic settled on him, icy claws sinking into his chest. Blinking felt as though sand were being dragged across his eyeballs. Holding his eyes open brought searing, burning pain. Closing them made no difference to the blackness but he wanted to hold them open, prayed that the blindness was fleeting, wanting to see the light fade back into his sight. Ester's hands touched him, his head, his shoulders. She was turning his face and he opened his eyes wide, unable to see her.

"I cannot see!" he whispered in mortal terror.

"Water! I need water!" Ester cried out.

Then in a whisper meant for Julian alone.

"All will be well, my love. All will be well."

He felt her lips pressed against his own. Then against his forehead. She kept on whispering all will be well , arms tight about him.

"I'm sorry, Ester. Please forgive me. I have been such a fool. It was him all along. He killed Napier and made it seem as though it was the curse. He was going to… he was going to kill you too," his voice broke.

"Harper?" Ester asked, voice trembling. "He is gone. But the Morgans have raised a hue and cry and this is an island. He will not escape. He will face justice. There is nothing to forgive, my love. Not between us."

"I was utterly blind," Julian whispered, brokenly, "how could I have been so blind?"

Ester shook her head against his. "Because you were molded from birth to believe your father. To believe in the curse. To believe everything bad in your life was caused by you. But that is over now. You are awake and I do not need to hear anything but an answer to one question." She tenderly cradled his head against her bosom. "Will you marry me?"

"Would you truly wed a blind man, blinded by his own folly?" he cried.

"I would marry you, even if that blindness was permanent."

Julian felt the gentle brush of her lips against his again.

"Your father may not welcome me after I spurned your affections once."

"He will, young man," came Lord Percival's voice from some yards behind him. "Once again, you have demonstrated your true character to me, your worthiness."

"Here is water. Lower your head; a bucket lies before you," Cerys Morgan instructed, her hand resting gently upon the back of his neck. Julian felt the chilling embrace of water as it enveloped him, the pressure rising, urging him down until he was fully submerged. Desperately, he opened his eyes wide, praying that the pure, untainted water would cleanse the remnants of whatever had been thrust into his sight. As breath eluded him, he finally broke the surface, blinking furiously. For a moment, there was darkness. Then gray. Then lighter gray. Finally, a figure began to coalesce in the very heart of his vision.

Bronze hair, verdant eyes, a band of freckles adorning a familiar button nose. A smile that warmed his heart. She was smiling, and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

"Yes," Julian breathed, the word escaping him like a sigh of relief.