Lady Eilean

Chapter 52

I spent the next few months in a haze of frustration and heartbreak. The study and contemplation of my family's symptoms were as agonizing as they were unpredictable. The effect of The Blackwoods seemed to have touched each person differently. There was no pattern, no warning for when and how they would erupt.

Father's moods swung between indulgent and demanding. On bad days, he would wander up and down the hallways crying out for Thomas or Timothy. Shouting until his voice wore out, and he collapsed, weeping and howling in despair.

It put everyone on edge, but the servants suffered the most. Their nerves were stretched tighter than skin over a drum. To help my father was to risk getting yelled at or injured. After a few weeks, furious at their mistreatment, I ordered them to leave him to his grief rather than help. Better to let him cry it out in an alcove than risk a kick to the legs. Only Mother could talk him out of his trances. She pulled him to his feet and would direct him back to his chambers, sparing whatever remained of his dignity.

Watching Mother care for my father softened our relationship, though it remained frosty. She had relaxed when the men returned, and she took to her role as nursemaid well, but she too was touched by the war. She wiled away her afternoons in a dreamlike stupor, humming to herself while knitting or being measured for a new gown. For her sake, I was glad Father's madness did not affect her social standing. As she had been during my childhood, Mother surrounded herself with gossiping courtiers that draped themselves across the castle like wilting flowers.

From time to time, Mother would feign concern for me, but her attention was short-lived and she would shake her head and cluck at me if the conversation turned too tactical. I was under no misunderstanding that she found my camaraderie with the maids and staff unbecoming. Historically aloof, this new swing between curiosity in me and despair at finding them below her interest was a mirror of the neglect I had grown up with. It was much worse. As a child, I could wonder at my mother's distance. As an adult, I was keenly aware of her sincere scorn at my existence.

John, my eldest brother and would-be heir to Stormway seemed altogether disinterested in any kind of responsibility. If he saw Father's lack or my struggle, he ignored them. Most days, he rode off to locations unknown. The porters and the watchmen could only confirm he left before dawn, stayed away for days at a time, and returned to the castle under cover of night. They claimed he never appeared drunk or disoriented. He simply... disappeared. His behavior and moods seemed stable, which was a blessing. And, candidly, it was easier to have him out of the way.

At first, Rupert rattled around the castle like a lost soul. Often, I found him talking to himself. Conversing with the air in long, drawn-out conversations with the phantom of his dead twin, Timothy. After a few months, he made an unlikely friend in Innis, who endured his moping with impressive forbearance. The two were an odd pair, both in temperament and in appearance. Innis only reached Rupert's shoulders with the top of her elaborate hairstyles, and she looked much, much smaller when observed walking beside his hulking frame. Once a twin, Rupert needed to be someone's shadow, and Innis — to everyone's shock — allowed him to be hers.

Innis' dry, impassive emotions seemed to comfort my brother, who had always run hot and been a slave to his passions. Though she was loath to admit it, Innis confided in me, with much sarcasm, that she found Rupert's churlish nature entertaining. In his better moods, he was as jovial and off-color as ever, and soon, he joined her in the library.

"He was there every day anyway, driving me to distraction, so I put him to work," she complained one night, her voice bubbly with amusement despite her unimpressed face.

I looked up from my correspondence and blinked, not quite understanding. "You put Rupert to work? In the library?"

She shrugged and looked down her nose at me, "Of course I did."

"And he likes it?"

"He claims to like it. Says the endless transcription makes 'his mind quiet'."

"Well, as long as he's not a bother to you," I shook my head, marveling.

"Not yet. But make no mistake, I'll ban him the minute I find him annoying."

I laughed. No suspension of belief needed. "You have my blessing."

Ian, who might have been the more natural assistant to Innis' work, was now indolent and taciturn. Lost to the faraway refuge of his mind or the comfort of women, he brought to his bed in a steady rotation. My suggestions for him to help Innis or Callum on research for the Delegation fell on deaf ears. My brother was content to spoil his brilliance with debauchery. His ruin was the most personally painful — realizing my success had been at his initiative. I earned my advancement with the damnation of his potential.

Robert, my most frequent tormenter in childhood, seemed little affected. Through sheer determination, he would put the entire experience of war behind him. He took it upon himself to report to Alex in the mornings, begging for something — anything — to do to keep his mind and hands from being idle. Amiable, humble, and a tireless worker, he threw himself into tasks both large and small with zeal. His pain was more cleverly disguised, but it lurked in his haunted eyes or the way he would stop and stare into the distance for long stretches of time. There was something inside him he intended to wear down with physical exertion. We were similar in that regard. Preferring to blunt the pain with action and movement.

Walther alone seemed untouched, though it was foolish to assume he suffered no lingering effects. Prior to leaving for the front, he had known Bess was pregnant. Thoughts of his wife and child-to-be sustained him during the chaos of battle. They were a point of clarity. He would survive for them. Now returned, he was the perfect example of a husband and father, doting on Bess and Wallis without fatigue. While it took Wallis some time to warm up to Walther, soon it was uncommon to see the daughter absent of her father. They were inseparable. It was, perhaps, the one bright spot of my family's return.

At night, shut away in my rooms with only Alex as a witness, I fell apart. Exhausted and at wits' end. Weeping for the wasted promise of my family, the fantasy of who they might have been. Bitter tears of anger soaked the collars and cuffs of my shirts — both for my lost family and the burden I felt in caring for them. Their return brought nothing but turmoil. The castle was overrun with people, and the cozy home I had cherished during their absence was no more. Every day was like walking barefoot and blindfolded across a floor strewn with broken glass. Guilt at my frustration chewed on me. I should be happy they were home. I should be glad to have them back.

All I felt was rage.