When You're Gone (Of Liberties And Loss, #2)

Prologue

Edited

Summer of 1860

George Beaumont-Howard, Sixteenth Duke of Norfolk,
Bereft widower of the late Duchess of Norfolk, Lady Emily Elizabeth Beaumont-Howard, whose soul rests in the loving arms of God

My dear Emily,

None of this is right.

I always find myself awake in the most peculiar of hours, wondering what will happen if I ask you if this is the story you wanted. Surely you would not answer yes, would you? I think not. It has been years, my love. Such a long time that I have lost count of each painful second that passed by. I do not even know how I survived a single moment without you, how I could breathe without you here. Sometimes, I feel as if our son is the only reason that I have not gone mad, the only reason that I have not yet decided to end my own life. The wound you left in me has not scarred yet, darling. It has only festered. Your death made me feel as if my heart has been torn out and I am but a walking corpse, the luxury of your love's sustenance not afforded to me. There is still a gaping wound in my chest, and it refuses to cease its bleeding.

It is all very strange, how I find myself missing you. What we had was a whirlwind. The moment we met, I did not expect any of this. I did not expect to pine for a mere farm girl, and yet I do. I die every day because I remember how the time you gave me were the best years of my life.

While it is true that I am not one to have a sharp mind, but why, after nearly ten years, have I been able to recall every small detail of your face in stunning clarity? While I find most of those who are mourning wishing to do the same, I revile this ability. Did you curse me to feel guilty for as long as I drew breath? I should truly be thankful, but whenever I see you in my dreams, or whenever I uncover that old painting standing above the mantle, I see myself wishing to never have met you. If I did not, I can't bring myself to think that I would have even believed that this sort of pain was possible. How am I living through this? I ask that question every day, but no one seems to be the slightest bit interested in answering me.

It is unfair, for you to have entered my life and be swept away so
quickly.

Do you not even regret leaving so early?

If not for my sake, then at least for the sake of your son who does not remember the mother who loved and doted on him until her last breath. All I can do is tell him stories of you, but I do not feel that it is enough to do you justice. If there is one wish that you can grant me, it is that, please, allow your son to meet you. I am sure that you will be proud of him, for he has grown into a kind boy. I love him dearly, but I cannot stand the sight of him because he favours you so strongly. He has your unruly hair, and his eyes are just as strange as yours. Blue, green, and even grey in some light. If you can see him now, then I think that you will be smiling. I promised you I would not fail him, and I do not think I did too much of a bad job. He has a heart such as yours, and he has a quick wit to match. He is the only thing left that I hold dear, and I think that you would simply adore him, my love.