Duke of Fyre (Braving the Elements #1)

Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

T he silence in Fyre Manor had grown oppressive in the week since Lydia's departure. Even the servants moved through the halls with hushed steps, as if the very air had become brittle enough to shatter at the slightest sound. The autumn rain that had settled over the countryside only added to the gloom, its steady patter against the windows a constant reminder of all that had changed.

Elias sat in his study, surrounded by papers he couldn't focus on reading. The lamp on his desk cast weak shadows across the room, though it was barely past midday. He had been avoiding meals in the dining room, taking them here instead, where the walls of books and business correspondence could shield him from the empty chair at the other end of the table.

But it wasn't just Lydia's absence he was avoiding. Peter's eyes, so like his own, held questions Elias couldn't bear to answer. The boy had grown quieter with each passing day, his usual enthusiasm dimmed to muted responses that twisted like a knife in Elias's chest.

Just that morning, he had encountered Peter in the library, curled in Lydia's favorite window seat with Mug at his feet. The little dog had lifted his head at Elias's approach, giving a soft whine that made Peter look up from the adventure book Lydia had given him.

"Father," Peter had said, his voice small and uncertain. "Have you heard from Lydia? Only, she promised to write, and I thought perhaps..."

"I'm sure she's been busy," Elias had replied stiffly, hating the way Peter's face fell at his words. "Your lessons await, I believe?"

"Yes, Father." Peter had gathered his book and stood, shoulders slumping. But at the door, he had paused. "Father? Did... did we do something wrong? Is that why she left?"

The question had struck Elias like a physical blow. "No," he'd managed, his voice rougher than intended. "You did nothing wrong."

"Then why won't she come home?"

Elias had no answer that wouldn't wound them both further. "To your lessons, Peter."

Now, alone in his study, those words haunted him. You did nothing wrong. But he had, hadn't he? The memory of Lydia's face that last morning, the hurt in her eyes as he let her walk away...

A sharp knock interrupted his brooding. Before he could refuse entry, the door swung open to reveal Nicholas, his usual good humor replaced by an expression of grim determination.

"This has gone on long enough," Nicholas announced without preamble, striding into the room.

"I'm rather busy at the moment," Elias said coldly, shuffling papers he hadn't read.

"Busy brooding, you mean?" Nicholas dropped into the chair across from him. "Tell me, old friend, how long do you plan to hide in here while your household falls apart around you?"

"I am not hiding," Elias bit out. "I am attending to business that requires my attention."

"Ah yes, very important business." Nicholas picked up one of the papers, turning it right side up with pointed emphasis. "So important you haven't noticed half these documents are upside down."

Elias snatched the paper back, his jaw clenching. "If you've come merely to mock me…"

"I've come because I care about you, you stubborn fool." Nicholas's voice softened slightly. "And because I just had a rather heartbreaking encounter with your son in the garden."

Something in Elias's chest tightened. "Peter?"

"He came running to me the moment I arrived, practically in tears." Nicholas leaned forward, his expression serious. "He wanted to know if I'd heard from Lydia, if I knew when she was coming home. The poor boy is devastated, Elias. And from what I gather, you've been about as comforting as a block of ice."

"I've been…" Elias broke off, guilt warring with anger in his chest. "He needs to understand that sometimes people leave. It's better he learn that now."

"Is it?" Nicholas's voice took on a dangerous edge. "Better he learn that loving someone means watching them walk away? Better he believe that his feelings don't matter, that proper dignity is more important than happiness? Tell me, Elias, are you trying to turn him into you?"

"You go too far," Elias warned, rising from his chair.

"Do I?" Nicholas stood as well, matching his friend's height. "Or have I finally hit upon the truth you've been avoiding? This isn't about Lydia at all, is it? This is about Barbara."

The name fell between them like a stone in still water, ripples of old pain spreading outward. Elias's hands clenched at his sides, his face going rigid with fury.

"Do not," he said, each word precise and cold as ice, "speak of things you don't understand."

"But I do understand," Nicholas pressed on, ignoring the danger in his friend's tone. "I was there, remember? I know exactly how the guilt tore you up after she passed. You blamed your father, you blamed yourself, you perhaps even blamed…"

"Stop!" Elias's voice was cold and Nicholas raised a hand in apology. "Perhaps that is going too far," h e agreed. "But my friend, Lydia is not Barbara. She's not going to?—"

"Enough!" Elias's voice cracked like a whip. "Get out."

"No." Nicholas stood his ground. "Not until you listen to reason. Your wife—your living, breathing wife who seems to care for you, who loves your son more than her own happiness—is gone. And instead of fighting for her, you're hiding in here, letting history repeat itself because you're too afraid to…"

"I said get out!" Elias roared, slamming his hands down on the desk hard enough to make the lamp rattle.

For a long moment, the two men stared at each other across the desk, decades of friendship warring with pride and pain. Finally, Nicholas stepped back, his expression sad.

"Very well," he said quietly. "But remember this, old friend—Barbara's death was a tragedy. Losing Lydia is a choice. Your choice."

With that, he turned and left, closing the door with deliberate softness behind him. The quiet click seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

Elias sank back into his chair, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for the brandy decanter. But before he could pour, a small sound from the doorway made him freeze.

Peter stood there, his face pale and uncertain, Mug pressed close against his legs. "Father? I... I heard shouting."

Elias set down the decanter carefully, forcing his voice to steady. "It was nothing. Just a disagreement between old friends."

"About Lydia?" Peter asked, taking a hesitant step into the room.

Something in his son's voice—so young, so vulnerable—made Elias's carefully maintained control waver. "Come here, son."

Peter approached slowly, as if afraid any sudden movement might shatter this rare moment of connection. When he reached the desk, Elias surprised them both by drawing him close, one hand resting awkwardly on his shoulder.

"I miss her," Peter whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Why won't she come home?"

Elias closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his son's pain like a physical burden. "It's... complicated, Peter."

"But she loves us," Peter insisted, looking up at him with those achingly familiar eyes. "I know she does. She told me so."

"Sometimes," Elias began, then stopped, searching for words that wouldn't wound. "Sometimes love isn't enough."

"Like with my mother?"

The question caught him off guard, making his breath catch painfully in his chest. "What do you mean?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably, but pressed on with a child's determined honesty. "I heard Uncle Nicholas mention her name. Barbara. That was my mother's name, wasn't it? The one in the portrait Lydia found?"

"Yes," Elias managed, his throat tight. "That was her name."

"Did she love me?" Peter's voice was very small. "Before she... before she died?"

Elias felt something crack inside his chest, a hairline fracture in the walls he'd built so carefully. "She... she never had the chance to know you, Peter. She died bringing you into this world."

"Oh." Peter was quiet for a moment, processing this. "Is that why you won't let Lydia be my mother? Because you're afraid she'll die too?"

The innocent question struck deeper than all of Nicholas's accusations. Elias pulled back slightly, studying his son's face—so like his own, hardly a trace of his late mother in it, yet with an openness, a warmth that was entirely his own. That was Lydia's influence, he realized with a pang. She had taught Peter it was safe to feel, safe to question, safe to love.

"It's not that simple," he said finally, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

"Isn't it?" Peter's chin lifted in a gesture so reminiscent of Lydia that it made Elias's heart ache. "She makes everything better, Father. The house isn't so dark anymore. And you..." He hesitated, then forged ahead with childish courage. "You smile sometimes now. Or you did, before she left."

Elias had no response to that simple truth. He could only pull his son closer, feeling the slight tremor in the small body pressed against his chest.

"Will you at least write to her?" Peter asked, his voice muffled against Elias's coat. "Ask her to come home?"

"Peter..." Elias began, but found he couldn't continue. How could he explain to a child what he barely understood himself? The paralyzing fear that gripped him whenever he thought of loving someone that completely again, of risking that kind of loss?

"Please, Father?" Peter pulled back to look up at him, his eyes bright with tears. "I promise I'll be better. I'll study harder, and I won't play pirates in the house, and…"

"Stop." Elias's voice was rougher than he intended. "This isn't about you being better or worse. You are..." He swallowed hard. "You are perfect exactly as you are. Never doubt that."

Peter's lower lip trembled. "Then why won't you fix it? Why won't you make her come home?"

Because I'm afraid, Elias thought but couldn't say. Because loving you both would mean risking everything. Because sometimes the weight of proper dignity is easier to bear than the terrible vulnerability of joy.

"Go to your lessons now," he said instead, his voice gentle but firm. "Miss Nancy will be waiting."

Peter's shoulders slumped, but he nodded. At the door, he paused, Mug pressed close against his legs. "Father?"

"Yes?"

"Lydia says that sometimes the bravest thing isn't fighting dragons, but admitting when you're scared." He hesitated, then added softly, "Maybe... maybe you could be brave like that too?"

Before Elias could respond, Peter was gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Elias stared after him, feeling the weight of his son's words settle like stones in his chest.

Brave like that too.

He turned to the window, watching the rain trace patterns down the glass. Somewhere out there, Lydia was living her life without them, perhaps already forgetting the way Peter's face lit up when he mastered a new skill, or how the morning light caught the silver in Elias's hair when he forgot to maintain his stern expression.

Nicholas's words echoed in his mind: Barbara's death was a tragedy. Losing Lydia is a choice.

But was it really a choice when the alternative was risking everything? When loving someone meant opening yourself to the possibility of that kind of devastating loss?

The rain continued to fall, offering no answers to the questions that haunted him. In the distance, he could hear Peter's voice drifting from the schoolroom, reciting Latin conjugations with none of his usual enthusiasm.

Elias turned back to his desk, to the familiar comfort of ledgers and business correspondence. But try as he might, he couldn't focus on the numbers before him. All he could see was Lydia's face that last morning, the hurt in her eyes as he let her walk away.

All he could hear was Peter's voice, soft but certain: Maybe you could be brave like that too.

But some kinds of bravery, Elias thought grimly, came at too high a price. Better to maintain proper dignity, to keep the walls firmly in place, than risk having them crumble entirely.

Better to be the Beast of Fyre than to remember how it felt to be simply, vulnerably human.