Edward Burr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-16 08:49 pm
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-16 08:49 pm
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The Price of Peace - Chapter Eight
The Price of Peace
Book Three
Chapter Eight
Remy knew he would not see Edward again, be written to, or have any indication other than silence as to the other man’s decision. It was the way things had to be, of course, but he still felt the slightest twinge of regret. He so often kept himself from caring. What were moral dilemmas to him but added enjoyments? Yet, he had truly felt ill at ease watching Edward struggle with himself. This decision would, he knew, be best in the long tum. Neither was so attached as to suffer permanently from ties severed now. For that, at least, Remy was grateful.
Twenty hours had passed. He knew it was foolish to be aware of the time gone and how much was left until his deadline passed. Edward had only one option. Still, the counting came easily.
He heard steps on the proper staircase, and it took only a few moments before his door was thrown open. Andre stood there, smiling wide. Remy felt a warm rush of joy at seeing his brother and especially at seeing him so happy. The cause did not matter. For all that he believed in the Republic, this peace had allowed him to see his family, to mend some of the bonds that had been broken when they last parted. Andre, at least, seemed to have long since forgiven him. Colette, he thought, was still deciding whether she ought to or not.
“Wish me well, Jean,” the younger man said hastily in French. Remy laughed, entirely unconcerned with his little brother’s motives. All that mattered to him was the mirth in his voice and eyes. What had caused it was an entirely secondary matter. Still, he waited for an explanation, sure Andre was eager to offer it. “Miss Constance has agreed to become my wife. We both feel it cannot wait, it must be before another month is out.”
Remy let out another laugh. He knew it was cruel, but he couldn’t help himself. “And have you spoke with Baron Astin? With dear Colette?”
“A trifle, Jean,” Andre replied with a grin. “Constance intends to clear the way for me tonight. I shall make my case tomorrow morning, and the first banns will be read this Sunday, mark me.”
Remy smiled still, shaking his head. “What will you do if they forbid it? Or, as is more likely, if Colette decides to skin you for even thinking it?” He could imagine the wrath their sister might unleash if she found out her brother was going behind his back and genuinely proposing to her second oldest stepdaughter. Andre would be very fortunate indeed if she did not find a way to rig a guillotine and remove his head.
Andre flashed him a wily smile, cocking his head with all the confidence of youth. Remy found he could barely doubt that the boy would achieve whatever aim he set himself to. “If they will not allow it, then Constance and I will elope. We will go at once to Scotland and find a priest to marry us there.” He smiled as Remy laughed again, loud and full.
“I wish you luck, my dear Andre. I fear you will be in great need of it.” He bowed his head, struggling not to just grin as he spoke. “Know, though, that I will guard the information with which you have entrusted me with my life. Colette and her husband shall hear none of this from me.” It was folly, he knew, but it was the folly of youth. For that, it could be forgiven. Perhaps it would come to good, even, and Andre would marry happily. A wife— or someone to care dearly about— was a very good thing for someone like Andre. Ground him while he was young and before he could get himself into too much trouble.
‡ ‡ ‡
It was improper, Edward knew, to call on Faith when no one else was at home. Still, it was a crime against etiquette that he needed to commit. He could not risk this topic of conversation while her mother or father was present. Even Long might be compelled to speak or even act against him if he were near. Besides, he did not wish to tempt fate and possibly cause trouble for him. This had to be done, and it would be best if only he and Faith knew what passed between them now.
He was shown to the upstairs sitting room and informed that Faith would see him soon. Left alone, Edward sank into icy dread. For over a day, he had not eaten. He had barely slept the night before.
Remy’s remand weighed heavily on his shoulders. The thoughts consumed his mind, plagued him at every turn. His steady feelings for Faith were a firm support—a house with sturdy walls and a solid roof, a safe shelter from all the roughness of the world. His passionate draw to Martineau was a ship in a storm—tossed about and victim to the beating of every element but fully alive at every moment. A sailor could have both. He could serve his ship and visit his house, but he had to choose only one. He must swear himself to the sea or shore, a fate to break his heart. Yet, he understood the necessity of it. He had spent far too long debating, arguing with himself over which he could bear to lose. The choice was agony, but he had made it.
Edward paced the room while he waited. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he struggled to breathe. This was abject terror. His life depended on this conversation in far different a way than it ever had before. He knew he must remain calm.
Faith entered. She had never looked more angelic, and he knew it. Her loose gown was mostly white, but its bottom-most layer was a pale gold. The dress, gathered under the gentle curve of her chest, was one sewn by Abigail Long, a gift of gratitude for something or another. Her gold hair was just barely curled, and she gazed at him with a sweet smile. At once, her arms were about his neck, and she kissed him before taking his hand. He followed as she led him to the sofa, and they sat together, both of her delicate hands clasped around his.
For a few moments, Edward let himself enjoy this feeling. He imagined they were in his London home or perhaps an even grander one. Phantom children played at being sailors or acted out the stories he had grown up hearing. A daughter followed her mother’s lesson for needlepoint while he scolded a son for being inattentive to his studies of Latin. He saw suitors— ill-fit and quality alike— for the girl and several sweethearts— each one, naturally, more dear and more beautiful than the last— for the boy. He saw grandchildren, all playing together in a mass. It was a beautiful idea, this sweeping family. His heart ached as he closed his eyes, opened them, and no longer saw the shadows of the future her could have.
For all that he loved Faith and every possible shade he had seen, there was oe figure who had not been present. One singular man who his soul could not bear to be without. For that man, he would surrender his career, his reputation, his future, and all his hopes for a family. No matter the ache he felt now, to lose Remy would cause him a pain a hundredfold stronger. To have him, he must pass through the hurricane, weather the gale, and emerge, however beaten he may become.
“Faith,” he said at last, silently commending his soul to the Almighty, abandoning himself to his fate. She looked at him with a warm, beautiful smile. It was nearly glowing. For a moment, his courage failed him. How could he look into those wide eyes and break the heart of the woman he truly adored? His feelings for her were no less; he knew there would be many days and nights, even long from now, where he yearned for her and missed her deeply. However, he could abide that feeling. He knew that to lose Remy would be to never feel the sea air again. A man adrift might miss the shore, but a sailor would pine himself to death kept from the ocean. “Forgive me, Faith. I am here to say goodbye.”
She stared at him in complete bewilderment. “Goodbye?” How young she sounded and how small she looked as her eyes widened and her lips were parted just so. Edward’s stomach sank as if he had just struck her. He hated himself as she held his hand that much tighter. “Where are you going? When will you return?”
“Away.” The words cut his throat, and the tears willing in her eyes stabbed at his conscience. “I will not return, Faith. I am here, before I quit London, to release you from your promise to me. I—”
“No.” The soft word became a mantra from her as he made himself continue.
“—I wish you joy, my dear Faith. You have taught me what it is to love. For that, I am eternally grateful.” She withdrew her hands and fell silent, staring at him. Her tears were not falling. “I can never earn your pardon for this, but it must be done. I shall always think on you fondly, but my heart would be untrue if I took you as my wife. You do not deserve that.”
“Edward,” she whispered, getting to her feet. He followed suit.
‡ ‡ ‡
“This decision was not made in haste,” he said in his best placating voice. “There was nothing else I could do.”
All of her confusion and sorrow coiled together inside Faith, and it became rage. After Cork had hurled abuses at her, Edward had comforted her. When David would tell her nothing, Edward had satisfied her curiosity about the war. For months, he had written her. She had spoken so highly of him to everyone, doted on him openly in public. She had secured him invitations, helped groom the societal skills he would need as her husband and to advance in the Navy, should war resume, or politics, should it not, however remote that possibility was. She had sought to help him, as he had helped her. This was how he then repaid her.
Faith allowed him no warning of her intentions. She turned toward him at the same time she raised her hand. The sound was encouraging, and if his cheek hurt even half as much as her palm stung, it was well worth it. She let the blow fully resound through his mind before she spoke. She would not let herself cry. None of her family was present, no one among the servants would be a parrot, so she summoned the words of drunken sailors that a lady was taught to be ever deaf to an ignorant of. “Sodomite.”
She wanted to laugh at how Edward stared at her. Faith hoped he was shocked. Was it the blow or truth that froze him? Both, perhaps. Yet, she knew if she let herself laugh, she would weep at the same time. That, she could not permit.
“Do you think I am so stupid? So witless? Did you imagine that I suspected nothing? You have worn the man’s sword since I first met you, then you disappear for days at a time once you have ‘renewed your acquaintance’ with him, when before you seemed to call nearly every hour. I thought you might have given me more credit than David. I bit my tongue. You, at least, made some attempt at discretion; you were never so brazen as he is. Besides, I assured myself that the Frenchman’s stay was temporary. He would pass from our lives and never trouble me again. But now, you will abandon me for him?” She moved to slap him again, changed her mind, but took pleasure in his flinch. “You know, don’t you, that he’s bedded David twice since the Astin’s party.”
It was Edward’s expression that made her laugh at last. He looked shocked, confused, and suddenly winded, as if she had struck him. There was a sharp, painful pleasure at seeing the knife her words served as. She laughed and sobbed at once, her tears streaking down her face as she twisted it.
“You didn’t know.” She felt for him. The obvious ache in him produced one much like it in her. She could bear it, for he deserved every second of the pain. “Ask him. Ask David. Twice since then, he’s sent for him. I suppose David thinks he’s clever, that no one notices when he departs in the middle of the night. We are not so stupid, you know.” She fixed her gaze on him, daring him to speak. When he did not immediately, she found herself silenced as well; her rage and grief at last knotting together to block her throat. She trembled, crying harder for her fury at herself over the tears.
“Faith,” Edward said at last, his voice nearly a plea.
She slapped him again. For several moments, they stood in silence. Her hand throbbed. Finally, she spoke. Her voice wavered now, broken by tears and sobs she tried to contain. “Get out. Get out of this house right now. If you do and if you never come near me again and never come near my brother and never let him near this family, maybe I’ll forget you. Maybe I won’t tell my father exactly what you are.” She wanted to do it. Hopefully, he knew that. She wanted to tell her father about him, make one or both of them answer for this. It would get them killed, more likely than not, and she didn’t care. The only thing she found it in herself to care about was that they could ruin David if they chose. As angry as she was at Edward for this stupid decision, she couldn’t risk her brother. “I hope he laughs at you. He’s too smart, you know. This Frenchman of yours won’t want you once he can have you. Especially not with a spurned admiral’s daughter. I hope he laughs, shuts the door, sends you away. You will have nothing then, and it will be entirely your own doing.” Finally, he was leaving.
She watched him slink toward the door of the sitting room, head down and shoulders hunched. He looked defeated and humiliating, and she told herself it was a triumph. Once she heard him on the stairs, she let herself scream. She cried as she did it, stamped her feet, and finally threw herself on the sofa. It was a childish tantrum, but there was no one around to see it, so she let herself indulge in it until she was too exhausted to continue.
Book Three
Chapter Eight
Remy knew he would not see Edward again, be written to, or have any indication other than silence as to the other man’s decision. It was the way things had to be, of course, but he still felt the slightest twinge of regret. He so often kept himself from caring. What were moral dilemmas to him but added enjoyments? Yet, he had truly felt ill at ease watching Edward struggle with himself. This decision would, he knew, be best in the long tum. Neither was so attached as to suffer permanently from ties severed now. For that, at least, Remy was grateful.
Twenty hours had passed. He knew it was foolish to be aware of the time gone and how much was left until his deadline passed. Edward had only one option. Still, the counting came easily.
He heard steps on the proper staircase, and it took only a few moments before his door was thrown open. Andre stood there, smiling wide. Remy felt a warm rush of joy at seeing his brother and especially at seeing him so happy. The cause did not matter. For all that he believed in the Republic, this peace had allowed him to see his family, to mend some of the bonds that had been broken when they last parted. Andre, at least, seemed to have long since forgiven him. Colette, he thought, was still deciding whether she ought to or not.
“Wish me well, Jean,” the younger man said hastily in French. Remy laughed, entirely unconcerned with his little brother’s motives. All that mattered to him was the mirth in his voice and eyes. What had caused it was an entirely secondary matter. Still, he waited for an explanation, sure Andre was eager to offer it. “Miss Constance has agreed to become my wife. We both feel it cannot wait, it must be before another month is out.”
Remy let out another laugh. He knew it was cruel, but he couldn’t help himself. “And have you spoke with Baron Astin? With dear Colette?”
“A trifle, Jean,” Andre replied with a grin. “Constance intends to clear the way for me tonight. I shall make my case tomorrow morning, and the first banns will be read this Sunday, mark me.”
Remy smiled still, shaking his head. “What will you do if they forbid it? Or, as is more likely, if Colette decides to skin you for even thinking it?” He could imagine the wrath their sister might unleash if she found out her brother was going behind his back and genuinely proposing to her second oldest stepdaughter. Andre would be very fortunate indeed if she did not find a way to rig a guillotine and remove his head.
Andre flashed him a wily smile, cocking his head with all the confidence of youth. Remy found he could barely doubt that the boy would achieve whatever aim he set himself to. “If they will not allow it, then Constance and I will elope. We will go at once to Scotland and find a priest to marry us there.” He smiled as Remy laughed again, loud and full.
“I wish you luck, my dear Andre. I fear you will be in great need of it.” He bowed his head, struggling not to just grin as he spoke. “Know, though, that I will guard the information with which you have entrusted me with my life. Colette and her husband shall hear none of this from me.” It was folly, he knew, but it was the folly of youth. For that, it could be forgiven. Perhaps it would come to good, even, and Andre would marry happily. A wife— or someone to care dearly about— was a very good thing for someone like Andre. Ground him while he was young and before he could get himself into too much trouble.
‡ ‡ ‡
It was improper, Edward knew, to call on Faith when no one else was at home. Still, it was a crime against etiquette that he needed to commit. He could not risk this topic of conversation while her mother or father was present. Even Long might be compelled to speak or even act against him if he were near. Besides, he did not wish to tempt fate and possibly cause trouble for him. This had to be done, and it would be best if only he and Faith knew what passed between them now.
He was shown to the upstairs sitting room and informed that Faith would see him soon. Left alone, Edward sank into icy dread. For over a day, he had not eaten. He had barely slept the night before.
Remy’s remand weighed heavily on his shoulders. The thoughts consumed his mind, plagued him at every turn. His steady feelings for Faith were a firm support—a house with sturdy walls and a solid roof, a safe shelter from all the roughness of the world. His passionate draw to Martineau was a ship in a storm—tossed about and victim to the beating of every element but fully alive at every moment. A sailor could have both. He could serve his ship and visit his house, but he had to choose only one. He must swear himself to the sea or shore, a fate to break his heart. Yet, he understood the necessity of it. He had spent far too long debating, arguing with himself over which he could bear to lose. The choice was agony, but he had made it.
Edward paced the room while he waited. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he struggled to breathe. This was abject terror. His life depended on this conversation in far different a way than it ever had before. He knew he must remain calm.
Faith entered. She had never looked more angelic, and he knew it. Her loose gown was mostly white, but its bottom-most layer was a pale gold. The dress, gathered under the gentle curve of her chest, was one sewn by Abigail Long, a gift of gratitude for something or another. Her gold hair was just barely curled, and she gazed at him with a sweet smile. At once, her arms were about his neck, and she kissed him before taking his hand. He followed as she led him to the sofa, and they sat together, both of her delicate hands clasped around his.
For a few moments, Edward let himself enjoy this feeling. He imagined they were in his London home or perhaps an even grander one. Phantom children played at being sailors or acted out the stories he had grown up hearing. A daughter followed her mother’s lesson for needlepoint while he scolded a son for being inattentive to his studies of Latin. He saw suitors— ill-fit and quality alike— for the girl and several sweethearts— each one, naturally, more dear and more beautiful than the last— for the boy. He saw grandchildren, all playing together in a mass. It was a beautiful idea, this sweeping family. His heart ached as he closed his eyes, opened them, and no longer saw the shadows of the future her could have.
For all that he loved Faith and every possible shade he had seen, there was oe figure who had not been present. One singular man who his soul could not bear to be without. For that man, he would surrender his career, his reputation, his future, and all his hopes for a family. No matter the ache he felt now, to lose Remy would cause him a pain a hundredfold stronger. To have him, he must pass through the hurricane, weather the gale, and emerge, however beaten he may become.
“Faith,” he said at last, silently commending his soul to the Almighty, abandoning himself to his fate. She looked at him with a warm, beautiful smile. It was nearly glowing. For a moment, his courage failed him. How could he look into those wide eyes and break the heart of the woman he truly adored? His feelings for her were no less; he knew there would be many days and nights, even long from now, where he yearned for her and missed her deeply. However, he could abide that feeling. He knew that to lose Remy would be to never feel the sea air again. A man adrift might miss the shore, but a sailor would pine himself to death kept from the ocean. “Forgive me, Faith. I am here to say goodbye.”
She stared at him in complete bewilderment. “Goodbye?” How young she sounded and how small she looked as her eyes widened and her lips were parted just so. Edward’s stomach sank as if he had just struck her. He hated himself as she held his hand that much tighter. “Where are you going? When will you return?”
“Away.” The words cut his throat, and the tears willing in her eyes stabbed at his conscience. “I will not return, Faith. I am here, before I quit London, to release you from your promise to me. I—”
“No.” The soft word became a mantra from her as he made himself continue.
“—I wish you joy, my dear Faith. You have taught me what it is to love. For that, I am eternally grateful.” She withdrew her hands and fell silent, staring at him. Her tears were not falling. “I can never earn your pardon for this, but it must be done. I shall always think on you fondly, but my heart would be untrue if I took you as my wife. You do not deserve that.”
“Edward,” she whispered, getting to her feet. He followed suit.
‡ ‡ ‡
“This decision was not made in haste,” he said in his best placating voice. “There was nothing else I could do.”
All of her confusion and sorrow coiled together inside Faith, and it became rage. After Cork had hurled abuses at her, Edward had comforted her. When David would tell her nothing, Edward had satisfied her curiosity about the war. For months, he had written her. She had spoken so highly of him to everyone, doted on him openly in public. She had secured him invitations, helped groom the societal skills he would need as her husband and to advance in the Navy, should war resume, or politics, should it not, however remote that possibility was. She had sought to help him, as he had helped her. This was how he then repaid her.
Faith allowed him no warning of her intentions. She turned toward him at the same time she raised her hand. The sound was encouraging, and if his cheek hurt even half as much as her palm stung, it was well worth it. She let the blow fully resound through his mind before she spoke. She would not let herself cry. None of her family was present, no one among the servants would be a parrot, so she summoned the words of drunken sailors that a lady was taught to be ever deaf to an ignorant of. “Sodomite.”
She wanted to laugh at how Edward stared at her. Faith hoped he was shocked. Was it the blow or truth that froze him? Both, perhaps. Yet, she knew if she let herself laugh, she would weep at the same time. That, she could not permit.
“Do you think I am so stupid? So witless? Did you imagine that I suspected nothing? You have worn the man’s sword since I first met you, then you disappear for days at a time once you have ‘renewed your acquaintance’ with him, when before you seemed to call nearly every hour. I thought you might have given me more credit than David. I bit my tongue. You, at least, made some attempt at discretion; you were never so brazen as he is. Besides, I assured myself that the Frenchman’s stay was temporary. He would pass from our lives and never trouble me again. But now, you will abandon me for him?” She moved to slap him again, changed her mind, but took pleasure in his flinch. “You know, don’t you, that he’s bedded David twice since the Astin’s party.”
It was Edward’s expression that made her laugh at last. He looked shocked, confused, and suddenly winded, as if she had struck him. There was a sharp, painful pleasure at seeing the knife her words served as. She laughed and sobbed at once, her tears streaking down her face as she twisted it.
“You didn’t know.” She felt for him. The obvious ache in him produced one much like it in her. She could bear it, for he deserved every second of the pain. “Ask him. Ask David. Twice since then, he’s sent for him. I suppose David thinks he’s clever, that no one notices when he departs in the middle of the night. We are not so stupid, you know.” She fixed her gaze on him, daring him to speak. When he did not immediately, she found herself silenced as well; her rage and grief at last knotting together to block her throat. She trembled, crying harder for her fury at herself over the tears.
“Faith,” Edward said at last, his voice nearly a plea.
She slapped him again. For several moments, they stood in silence. Her hand throbbed. Finally, she spoke. Her voice wavered now, broken by tears and sobs she tried to contain. “Get out. Get out of this house right now. If you do and if you never come near me again and never come near my brother and never let him near this family, maybe I’ll forget you. Maybe I won’t tell my father exactly what you are.” She wanted to do it. Hopefully, he knew that. She wanted to tell her father about him, make one or both of them answer for this. It would get them killed, more likely than not, and she didn’t care. The only thing she found it in herself to care about was that they could ruin David if they chose. As angry as she was at Edward for this stupid decision, she couldn’t risk her brother. “I hope he laughs at you. He’s too smart, you know. This Frenchman of yours won’t want you once he can have you. Especially not with a spurned admiral’s daughter. I hope he laughs, shuts the door, sends you away. You will have nothing then, and it will be entirely your own doing.” Finally, he was leaving.
She watched him slink toward the door of the sitting room, head down and shoulders hunched. He looked defeated and humiliating, and she told herself it was a triumph. Once she heard him on the stairs, she let herself scream. She cried as she did it, stamped her feet, and finally threw herself on the sofa. It was a childish tantrum, but there was no one around to see it, so she let herself indulge in it until she was too exhausted to continue.