In a cheap lodge somewhere down the way to London, in a dingy room with oil lamp like smell and rotting upholstery on the furniture, with depressed shade on draperies along the windows and dusty smelling blankets over yet grimy mattresses, he stood by the dull windowpane, looking out_ curtains pulled aside and a promise of rain infesting the air, the clouded sky, puddles reflecting the moon that won't show up.
He remembered two things as he watched the potholes filled with mud below reflected the stable lamps.
Beatriz was dead, had been...for quite some times now.
And Eden didn't care anymore, now that she knew what he had caused.
Other, less strident knowledge still rung in his head but those had less of his attention. Maggie was dead too. Penfield, who apparently had been Maggie's lover, was devastated. Edwin's son was in safe hands, with his sister_ motherless and soon to go fatherless, although Edwin hoped that his little bundle of joy would have a better life than himself.
His little bundle of joy?
But had he not remarked Eden how he could not bear the sight of it? How, he intended on leaving it at the gate of some cathedral?
Edwin, in fact, was an excellent liar.
He had only thought that making Eden hate him will make his exodus an easy affair. Shouldn't you, afterall, die in peace knowing no one desires you around?
It didn't come out that way but alas, did it even matter anymore?
Before leaving for Hertfordshire, Edwin had spent the entire day with the boy in his arm, quite not ready to let go even when it was late in the night and the baby's tiny hands and feet had curled into profoundest ease of infancy sleep, its big little eyes had dropped shut, long lashes resting on the bulging cheeks.
Edwin had stayed watching his son. Had loved him because no one else would.
Then he had come all the way up to Hertfordshire, and told Eden with a flat look in his eyes that he hated 'it' and wished he could abandon it at a church gate_ hoping that would wear out his intense attachment for his son.
It didn't. It only made things worse for him.
He also told Eden that he didn't give a flying fig about what happened to Maggie. That he was rather pleased by the news of her death.
In truth, Edwin hadn't quite expected things to take such sinister turns. That night spent with Margaret, Edwin was not sure if his intention had been vengeful alone or animalistic as well. He hadn't figured death as one of the possible outcomes when he had sweated that night away in intense hatred towards Eden.
And if Eden hated him now, did it not mean Beatriz would have hated him too_ far above, in the constellations.
It was late autumn and the air was cold.
Beatriz's last breath in his arm had sent Edwin to death while he was still breathing. It was an odd miasma. A thick pall. Edwin couldn't once feel his hand but he did feel Bea's cold skin. He couldn't hear his own heart or Bea's but he could listen the restless cry of his newborn.
Edwin was a ghost walking around in those days of Beatrix's funeral. No noble family attended. Not even his own. The mass had been formed by servants and Edwin's own near and far friend's.
Edwin couldn't have cared less for what the world had thought of his and Bea's union. She had been the love of his life. He could have fought every mortal battle to win her over. For her, he could have died...
...but she died. She was a cheater.
Beatrix Edwin.
That woman he loved! That love of his life! That life of his!
She betrayed him on the very first foot of their journey to the end. Gave him a son and left....as if that was all a wife's duty was. As if, an heir to pass off the progeny and inheritance was all a man sought. As if a successor was what Edwin had sought after in his morning strolls and wildflower studies?
Oh Bea! You promised!
But for a man who fought the world to own a wife from servant class, Edwin lost the battle at the battle line, and for the very reason that he succeeded.
After the funeral, he only vaguely remember how Ivy had taken care of his son in the chaos of mourning and how Stephen had made all the arrangements and Clarke had fought the church authorities to let them bury Beatrix in Edwin's family tomb.
It would have helped, perhaps, if Edwin had turned to bibulosities, drinking his loss away like most widowers did, into the red wines and goblets of cognac. It would have helped, fooling his mind into lack of sensation where his sensations had so honed such that the cutting edges of grief would hurt him a little less.
Edwin didn't
Why should he?
Didn't Beatrix deserve at least this much? A remembrance from her husband?
It didn't last as half as long as Edwin had willed it to be, the mourning. Stephen thundered in one day and lectured Edwin for over a day at how pathetic excuse of a man he had become and why, this state Edwin had given into would hurt Bea, god rest her soul, more than any other endeavor Edwin could partake.
Ivy agreed with Stephen.
That this might be hurting Bea was an idea that hurt Edwin physically.
Though even in his mourning, Edwin had been affectionate towards his son, he realized that his boy needed as much a feminine care as he needed to be a better father. A better, less pathetic man.
Edwin handed his son into the care of his sister.
Stephen suggested he himself came to Ashleyton for a while.
Like old times, my friend.
Ashleyton was holy ground to Edwin. He had found his Beatrix there. His love, his hope. His madness. The root of his belonging. So he agreed to visit Ashleyton two months after Bea's departure. To walk on the land she had lived on.
To collect the coat-buttons and false-daisies from the wildflower phylum of Ashleyton.
Edwin came to Hertfordshire to let Beatrix go.
But oh! The great, great tragedies of universal concurrences! Oh the terrible, twisted offences of terribly twisted fates! Oh the corrupted chances!
Instead, he ran into Eden Henley, quite accurately! A walking replica of his Beatrix, in every way possible.
I apologize, sir.
The first syllable she spoke and the devastated man spun down into the crafty foreplay of hope and resignation. Mystic delusion.
May I help you to serving sir?
Edwin's lashes stuttered. This cruel sight had made his heart ache. If this girl in front of him was not real, Edwin knew this time, his death would be real.
Yes. He had whispered. Yes, you may.
It was not Edwin's fault entirely, the way things took turn.
YOU ARE READING
Promises Unkept
أدب تاريخيThe 'marriage' was against his will. The woman was beyond his liking. So, when Lord Stephan Adelwood was married to the poor girl named Eden Henley, his fire did bruise the lady badly enough to change her entirely. Promises were broken, hearts were...
