Darkness cast little shadow across the vast Whitestone estate. While Luke was here, Glenna and Reed would return to their home so Glenna could finish packing her trunk. He also asked her to bring Noir, for he would not leave without his feline companion.
Luke stood near the hedgerows and stared at the french doors leading to his father’s study. The room was ablaze in illumination. As silent as a predatory jungle cat, Luke moved closer until he had a clear observation of the large room. His father stood by the fireplace, sipping on his brandy. A familiar pose, but it did not bring Luke any happy memories. All the recollections of his childhood were drenched in conflict as he could never please the man in either word or deed. When the time came to go away to school, Luke had been relieved to escape the daily thrashings, both physical and verbal. At age fourteen, he shot up five inches in height and gained a stone, and threatened his father that if he laid a hand on him again, he would give it back and more. Though they did exchange a few punches in later years, the verbal lashings remained a constant presence. Hard as it was to admit standing here in the darkness, the hurtful words did take their toll.
By age sixteen he reached his full height of six-feet two and a half inches. He inherited his height and build from his father, but the earl had sandy blond hair and brown eyes. Luke favored his mother in coloring. His heart cramped in empathy for his poor mother. At least she would grieve for him. And perhaps his sister, Lydia, though they never got along well.
Luke and his father had a fractious relationship built on distrust, disdain, and discontentment on both sides. Reflecting again on his past, Luke had to admit most of his dissolute behavior came about to rile his father more than anything else. But not all of it. Rather disconcerting to find out how morally bankrupt he’d been. No more. Now that he could remember everything, he knew with a patent certainty he was not the same man. Thank Christ.
Leaping from his hiding place near the hedge, he sprinted across the manicured lawn and opened the door before slipping into the room. Closing it behind him, he waited. “Father.”
Whitestone turned, one eyebrow arched in cool question. Luke unwound the scarf. No reaction from the man at all, just his usual expression of cold contempt and a colder indifference.
“So it is true, then. When the men came to me this afternoon with their Banbury tale of you terrorizing the village, I’d been ready to dismiss their uneducated hysteria as complete bunk. Until I tasked a couple of my men to dig up your grave.” The earl leaned against the fireplace mantel. “Empty, they reported. Well, except for a mangled, rotting hand. My first thought? Grave robbers. But what would they steal? I made sure you were not buried with any baubles. Then I thought it could be ressurectionists, out to sell your corpse for profit. Finally, you would serve some useful purpose.” His father took a large swallow of brandy and cast him a baleful glare. “Yet those men who stopped by, many of them trustworthy in their simple way, insisted it was you they’d seen. Attacking a small boy, no less. Have your predilections turned to children in your undead state?”
Luke took one step forward, his fists clenched. He halted. His father always managed to goad him, but he must keep an even strain and a firm hold on his emotions. “Hardly. The boy was my son. Jeffrey. There is no denying he is mine. Handsome lad.”
Whitestone curled his lip in disgust. “But you are not. Not any longer. God’s blood, you are an abomination. Look at you. A walking corpse. Keep your distance.”
“Not the least bit interested how I came to be reborn as it were?”
The earl shook his head. “No. I am sure it was the devil’s work. I could not care less. Didn’t even have the decency to remain dead. Typical of you.”
Try as he might to keep a frosty wall around his heart for this conversation, his father’s words wounded him nonetheless. Be damned if he would show it. What did surprise him is his father acted in a caviler manner regarding his reanimation. Did anything ever ruffle the man’s cold demeanor? “Ever hear of The Picture of Dorian Gray?”
“The novel by that sodomite Irish writer, Oscar Wilde, recently convicted and imprisoned for gross indecency? Yes, it made the papers. Leave it to you to mention him. Two of a kind. Peas in a pod.” The earl scoffed, and then he stared into the fire.
“Abject hedonism, moral dishonesty, and self-indulgence, I lived the life of Dorian Gray. I am--Dorian Gray. And now, here I stand before you, the living portrait showing the corruption of my past life. I cannot go back, nor do I wish to. I am not the same man--and am glad of it.”
The earl continued to stare into the flames. “What is your damned point?”
“I can hardly live the life of Ravenswood any longer.”
His father met his gaze and laughed cruelly. “As if I would allow you to take up the mantle. I had disowned you. And if you try to be Ravenswood, I will deny you.”
“Is that why you did not bury me in the family crypt here at the estate?” Luke asked, his voice soft.
“Yes, damn you. You defied me at every turn and brought scandal to my name. You broke your mother’s heart. In my final act, I showed the world what I thought of your life--A complete and utter waste. I was not even going to place a stone at your grave. Dead and buried, the wretched chapter at a close. Yet here you stand.” The earl threw what was left of his drink into the fire. The glass shattered and the flames roared to life for a few seconds from the alcohol.
“You reject me then, Father?” Luke spit the word “Father” from his mouth as if it were poisoned fruit.
“Completely. You are nothing more than a walking cadaver. An atrocity of an existence. A monster.”
That word. Monster. Rage filled Luke’s new soul. He took a step closer, but his father did not flinch. “Give me what is mine, Father, and you may keep your feelings of rejection toward me. Fail to do this and you will face my retribution upon you and everything you hold dear. I will burn Whitestone to the ground and nothing will remain but scorched earth. On this… I vow.” Perhaps overdramatic, but Luke meant the threatening words.
“You miserable beast. State your terms,” his father snapped.
Luke pointed to the large safe at the opposite side of the room. “Empty the contents and give it to me. I know you keep tens of thousands of pounds on hand, bestow it to me, and I will disappear from this area and you will never see or hear from me again.”
“And I am to trust you?”
“I need to start a new life. You will provide me the means in which to do so. Or perhaps you would rather I take my request to mother? Is she upstairs in her room?”
“Your presence would kill your mother certain sure.” His father frowned. “Fine. I will do as you ask and know I do this to protect your mother and Lydia. If they could see you now, it would crush them utterly.”
“As if you care at all for anyone’s feelings,” Luke scoffed.
The earl stabbed his finger in the air toward him. “Believe it or not, I love your mother deeply. And Lydia is a good girl. They mean the world to me.”
“But I never did.”
“No. Never. My only son and I loathed you. You were a miserable, troublesome child who grew up to be a wretched, debauched young man without a soul. I curse the day you were born.”
The words cut deep, leaving permanent scars on Luke’s heart. To hear his father despised him hurt worse than he thought it would. The sad fact is there was enough truth in it for Luke to feel humiliated and worse--mortified. He struggled to hide his muddled emotions. “Empty the safe and be quick about it. I see you did not waste any time to clear out my belongings. I saw them at Patrick’s,” he barked.
“You have been to the vicar’s?” Whitestone’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Luke cursed inwardly for letting that slip. “Patrick was not at home. I let myself in. I saw all my possessions spread out in his parlor.”
“That at least is the truth. My men stopped by the vicar’s earlier and no one answered the door. Who else knows you have risen from the dead?”
“No one, if you exclude the entire village. But to them I am a fictional horror story. If you do not do as I ask I will make damned sure everyone sees me and myth will become fact.”
The earl stalked across the room, grabbed a case from a nearby shelf, crouched down by the safe, and spun the lock. Luke stood beside him. “There… There is more than forty thousand pounds in here,” his father sputtered.
“Do not whine. I know for a fact you have five times that in various banks. You will not be destitute.”
“Some of your mother’s jewels, gold coins, bearer bonds…”
“Fill. The. Bag. Now,” Luke snarled.
The earl did, then slammed the safe shut and stood. “Be gone, monster. And never return.”
“Did you sell Fury as yet?” His father shook his head. “No? Excellent. I will help myself to my horse, and while I am in the stables, I will take the gig and one other horse. Do not worry. I will leave the brougham.”
“You best take to the roads as soon as possible. Men are gathering here at first light to hunt you down and destroy you.” The earl smiled cruelly. “Or perhaps I will send a couple hired assassins to eradicate your existence from the earth. I would be doing mankind a favor.”
Luke picked up the leather case and glared at his father, giving him a dangerous look. “No. You will leave me in peace. Fail to do this and I will carry out my threats and use my own swift sword of vengeance.” He strode to the french doors, then stopped and turned slightly. “You will see to the continued care of my son, Jeffrey? I hear there is a baby girl. Fenton.”
His father raised his chin in the air. “I am already aware of the Fenton babe. The children are innocent. I will see they want for nothing.”
Luke gave a sharp nod. At least his father would do the honorable thing. No warm words of farewell passed between them. This chapter of his life was at an end. Regret that he did not lead a better life was quickly replaced with relief that he would be leaving all this behind. He’d wasted his previous existence and now wore the corruption for all to see. Yes, how apt to compare himself to the fictional Dorian Gray. The description fit. Would certainly explain why certain injuries did not heal, along with his wretched, transplanted hand. In future, he would strive to give his new life meaning and purpose. He turned and disappeared into the darkness.