Duke of Camellias

ONE

A figure bent down, and with trembling hands, placed a white rose before a gravestone. Engraved on the gravestone was Eleanora May Millais. Her brother, Blair Millais, kneeling before the grave, thought of her.

Eleanora had loved white roses. They were like her, pure and fair, fragile to the touch, and ephemeral. Like Eleanora had died, they would wilt. And the past roses he had laid before the gravestone had already dried, and their petals had yellowed. They looked like a moth's wings.

Standing up again, Blair wondered why it had to be her.

Eleanora was kind, and only eighteen. She was supposed to live, marry her sweetheart, have children,  then grandchildren, and be happy. It was for Eleanora that Blair had worked himself to the bone everyday, writing manuscripts after manuscripts despite the numerous rejections that followed. He went from place to place, publisher after publisher, with his stories, about fiery romances between lords and ladies, and mysteries involving stolen antiques and overzealous detectives—but those never got him anywhere. They couldn't compare to his most recent story about a beautiful woman on her deathbed.

Blair scoffed at the cruelty of the world. Of course, this story had to be the one that brought him success. Still, despite the many new invitations for his stories, he knew they weren't stable and it wouldn't be long before some other ludicrous genre caught the wealthy's fancy. He could never keep up with it.

He walked the silent path back home, Eleanora no longer laughing and singing her nursery-rhymes by his side. He never knew how much he would miss it.

When he reached the outside of the small and rackety apartment he lived in, he saw the editor of Blackwood's Magazine for men, Morris Davis. He turned the moment he stopped in his steps, and gave a small, hesitant smile.

"Millais," he greeted, "where were you?"

"I was at the cemetery. My sister, you know."

"Oh, yes." His brows furrowed in sympathy, but the man couldn't understand. He was happily married with a stable job, he didn't have to worry about money nor had to visit a cemetery with roses in his hands.

"What are you here for?" Blair asked, and then opened the door. "Care to come in for tea?"

Morris accepted and they walked up the old staircase, Blair stomping as Morris held on to the railing tightly and stepped with care, for each step made the wood underneath creak and quaver. 

When they finally reached Blair's apartment, Morris stood by the side as he cleared the clutter.

"Excuse me," Blair said nonchalantly, "I've been busy with the funeral processes and all, and recently have only been sleeping and eating. Here, you can take that uncluttered chair. I'll set to boiling some water once I find the kettle—"

"It's fine, Millais," Morris said, interrupting him. "I came here to discuss a job opportunity for you."

Blair paused, two cups in his hand, then slowly, he turned to face the editor.

"Another? I'm sorry, Davis, but I can't." Blair sat down in a chair and leaned back. "Ever since my sister's death, I haven't been able to write. It's hard."

"I understand."

"No." Blair looked at the other man sternly, eyes unwavering. "You don't understand." 

Morris felt deeply ashamed and fiddled with the hat in his lap.

"It's tiresome, writing those atrocious stories. They make me want to puke, stories of affairs, elopement, and murders that the spineless blue bloods of society have no courage to commit and thus read! I'm so tired, I can never be an accomplished author if it means writing lowbrow fiction—I want to write literature, Davis!"

Morris nodded. "I know what you want, Millais. And this time, it's coming true."

Blair raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" Morris smiled, glad to have caught his attention and calmed him down.

"There's an offer, you see, from the Duke of Thornton. You probably have never heard of him, as he lives in the countryside, a place called Rue Point, not Thornton anymore, but he's famous for his paintings. He paints beautiful women, but he doesn't use a model. They are all from his imagination."

"What's your point?"

"Yes, yes," Morris laughed, forgetting the young boy's impatience. "The Duke wants you to pen down his biography."

"So I shall write down the life story of a duke."

"It's not bad practice," Morris said quickly, seeing the ire in Blair's eyes. "I'm not doubting your skill, of course, but you need a place to start. That Duke is the place. He will pay ten pounds per month you spend on it, and you will live in his estate. All your living expenses, food, and clothing will be paid for."

Blair's eyes widened, and he shook his head.

Eleven pounds a month was a better salary than a footman's. Maybe equal to a butler's. He couldn't imagine it. Simply for writing, too, with meals included? And a place to stay?

"Who is the Duke of Thornton?" he inquired softly, now curious. Morris was overjoyed.

"The Duke," he began, "is quite a mysterious character. He is the second eldest son of the Thornton Dukedom, and after his elder brother's death while aboard in France, and the death of his father, he inherited all the Thornton estate and land, but refuses to live there. Instead, he lives in a shabby house in the countryside overgrown with camellias. The villagers there started calling him the Duke of Camellias, and the name has caught on."

"You aren't telling a fable, are you?" Blair narrowed his eyes, and Morris fell back laughing.

"Of course not, my boy! I'm happy for you, and I think this could be the chance to break into the literary world. Think of all the elites in England, no, in all of Europe, scrambling to read about the hidden scandals and secrets of the Thornton Dukedom!"

"Hidden scandals? Secrets?" Blair wasn't convinced. "So I will be a news tabloid."

"No, no, no!" Morris shook his head like a dog shaking water off his fur. "You will have an interesting topic to write about. And it'll be a topic everyone wants to read. What's so bad about that?"

Blair turned and rested his elbows on the table. He thought about the graveyard, and the roses on Eleanora's grave. He thought of the wind blowing them away, and the emptiness that would soon envelope it.

"How far is Rue Point?"

"About two hours by train, and one by carriage."

Blair looked around at his apartment. Stacks of paper sat on every surface, and there, in his room, was his typewriter. It had been unused for a month, the longest he had ever not wrote in years.

He looked at what was once Eleanora's room. Now her dresses had been given away or burnt, and there was only an empty bed, sheets taken off, and the small porcelain figurines of a calico cat.

It wasn't going to be hard to clean up, or leave. The only problem was the grave.

"Will you—" Blair felt the lump in his throat as he spoke, "will you put flowers on Eleanora's grave, Davis?"

Morris's eyes softened as setting's sun's light shone on the tear on Blair's cheek. The boy's profile was so much like his sister, so feminine and melancholic, only he did not know, for he never paid much attention to himself.

Morris smiled. "Of course. White roses, right?" Blair wiped his eyes with the cuffs of his sleeves, and then murmured a "Yes."

Morris left, and then Blair was left packing up his things. He folded up what clothes he had, as tattered and worn out they were. Then he decided he would throw out the rest, for he wouldn't be needing broken toys or plates. Maybe a cup, he thought to himself.

He had finished cleaning up the empty flat when he saw the stack of papers on the table. It was a manuscript he never finished, and he knew would never come to fruition. However, to throw it away was too hard, and there into the cracking leather trunk it went.