The roses glowed in the sunshine. The lush dark greenery provided a perfect background for the blooms. The colors were almost blindingly bright. Margaret thought she had never seen a more cheerful place. Aware of how tired he must be, she led her companion to a white marble seat that ran along one wall.
Christopher lowered himself onto the bench with a sigh and painfully straightened his legs. She sat next to him and spread her loose skirt. They sat there for a long moment, drinking in the colors and birdsong. It was quietly pleasant and quite wonderful.
As he gazed around, he suddenly started talking in a low voice. Whether he was speaking to her or just reliving memories which the past few days had unearthed, she did not know. She continued to look at the flowers, but she listened to his every word.
“My mother brought me here as soon as I was well enough to leave my bed and the weather permitted it. She saw it as part of my recovery. The first day, I was too sick and exhausted to protest, though I honestly had no interest in an excursion. I was in so much pain, my mind spinning like a Dervish. I wanted to stay in bed. I wanted to remain there forever.”
Affection tinged his voice. “She would hear none of it, of course. On her orders, Brenlaw wheeled me out here in a chair. As my mother worked, I dozed. The sun was warm, and the breeze blew gentle and cool.”
“Sounds lovely,” Margaret commented idly.
“It was,” he replied. “After that, any day with fine weather was an outing for me. She insisted on it. As I grew stronger, my mother would ask me to help her prune the bushes. She gave me an occupation so I wouldn't go mad. She hoped to draw me out of myself and away from thoughts of what my life had become. It often worked. When it didn’t, the results were… impressive.”
Glancing at him, Margaret asked, “What do you mean ‘impressive’?”
“Once, frustrated and raging over the whole situation, I destroyed an entire row of my mother’s prized Merlot-red roses.” Christopher pointed to a row of beautiful deep-red roses. “Those over there. I pruned them into the ugliest shapes I could design. I barely left a leaf on them. Cutting the buds off gave me a perverse pleasure and a twisted sense of accomplishment. In my mind, such beautiful things shouldn’t live in a world that had shattered my life so completely.”
Margaret recognized the destructive desires only too well. She had seen similar behavior in maimed soldiers. Not wishing to criticize his understandable behavior, she merely replied, “Oh dear.”
“When my father found out what I'd done, he threatened to skin me alive. He demanded to know how I could do that when I knew how important my mother's roses were to her. She was working so hard to help me get better, and I wrecked her special place in a fit of pique.”
“He was angry?”
“No, I’d seen him upset before. I’d often been the cause. This was something else entirely. He was furious, almost raving. Said I didn’t deserve an iota of what I had; he'd never known such an ungrateful brat.”
“What happened?”
“I was so angry and bolshie that day, I told him to go ahead and finish what the crash had started. It didn't matter. I didn’t care. It wasn't like I had any sort of life to live anyway. I sneered and said I didn’t understand why they hadn’t just let me die in the first place and saved everyone a lot of trouble and pain.” The sneer he used back then was obvious in his voice.
He hesitated and continued with a much different tone. “My father was thunderstruck. He stopped shouting and just stared at me in horror. I had never seen him struck dumb like that. I actually felt proud, if you can believe it. I had won an argument at last.”
Margaret turned to him, shocked. “Tell me your mother wasn’t in the room.”
“Oh God, my poor mother!” Christopher put his hands to his face and paused, shuddering. As he recovered his composure, his arms slid farther into his hood. Margaret supposed he was running his fingers through his hair.
“She was there, then,” she muttered.
His hands dropped into his lap. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sound phlegmatic. By the occasional cracks in his voice, it was obviously a difficult fight. “Yes. She sat weeping on the sofa. She was struggling to understand why her son would do any of this, why he would destroy what he knew she loved. She dearly wished her husband had listened to her and not gotten involved. She knew she could handle the situation better without his inflammatory presence.”
He inhaled deeply, trying to maintain his failing calm. He was not doing well at it. Margaret sat and waited with a sympathetic, if stunned, ear.
When he spoke again, his voice was low and his breathing uneven. “When I said I would rather have died, her shriek was like nothing I had heard from human lips before or since. It was a heart-shattering wail, the last cry of a soul falling into Hell. It was horrible.”
He fell silent once more, lowering his head. His frame shook. A tear splashed onto his hands.
“Oh, Christopher!” Maggie exclaimed softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.
His voice returned, bitter with self-loathing. “At that moment, staring at my dear wretched mamma, I felt that flaying alive would be too good a death for me. My mother, who had been so strong, caring, and gentle during my illness, who did everything within her power to help me recover in every way, had just heard her only child declare that he preferred it if she hadn’t bothered. My target was my father, with whom I’d clashed since adolescence. My final victim however was her, the one person who had never been anything but loving and kind to me.”
She touched his hand gently and said nothing. Lashing out was part of the anger and frustration many maimed soldiers displayed when they realized their lives would never be the same. Though he still had all his arms and legs, the crash changed his life dramatically as well.
He sighed. “The fury left me instantly. I felt sick, sorry, and disgusted with myself. I rolled my chair to her, grasped her hand, and begged for her forgiveness. I said I didn’t really mean any of it. I apologized for ruining her beloved flowers and for being an ungrateful son. I told her I would never say such things, nor contemplate such things, ever again. I assured her that I loved her and papa. I appreciated all they did for me, and I wanted to make them proud of me.”
“What did she do?”
“What any angel would do.” He looked up and stared off into the garden as if watching the memories unfold before him. “She embraced me and kissed the top of my head as she'd done since I was an infant. The benediction of that kiss moved me like nothing else, and I held onto her with the tenacity and need of a young child. And I swore to myself then and there that I’d never again forget how much she loved me.”
Maggie nodded and pressed his hand. She recognized the step he took with that decision. At that moment, he decided to live, to get better rather than waste away, and that made a huge difference.
He sighed. “That was the true start of my recovery. I began to work hard to regain my strength, whereas before I had let it come back on its own. I lifted books and potted plants to strengthen my back and arms. I tried to stand and walk every day.”
A touch of mischief entered his voice. “I practiced in the sculpture garden away from the sight of everyone. I wanted it to be a surprise. And it was. The look of amazement and joy on my parents’ faces when I approached them using crutches was incredible. Then one day, while my mother was in her rose garden, I entered using nothing but this cane. She ran to me and held me, crying and laughing at the same time. I’ve never felt so proud. Before she died a year later, she saw me walk unaided.”
“Wonderful.”
She could almost see the woman from the painting, standing amid her roses, watching her son walk to her for the first time in months. The older woman’s mouth gaped as she stared. Clippers dangled loose in gloved hands. Her eyes glittered with tears of joy.
He continued thoughtfully. “I had allowed my mind to stagnate during the early phase of my convalescence. As I strengthened my body, I also began to read voraciously. I’ve probably read most of my father’s library. In the end, he and I could hold political and philosophical discussions that didn’t devolve into shouting matches.”
Maggie smiled. He had such triumph in his voice when he spoke of his détente with his father. Considering what he indicated before, that particular change was probably an immense achievement.
“I also began to build and work with things. I created a self-watering system. It collects rainwater, delivering it to each plant, which saves time and labor. It is used in all the vegetable gardens and greenhouses now. The year needs to be particularly dry for the flowers to need any supplement from the house’s water supply.”
“That sounds amazing. I’d love to see it sometime. My father was always looking for new ways to help the estate, and I became interested in such things. He had a great imagination when it came to things like that.”
“I was very proud of myself. We’ve had great soldiers and politicians in my family, but I don’t recall ever hearing about an inventor before.”
He paused. “After my parents died… I don’t know. I lost interest in a lot of things. I still read, still tinkered with ideas and still exercised, but it was more to keep myself busy. It was not as if I planned to go out into the world and use my skills. I became a dilettante, a hobbyist. I suppose I haven’t had a true direction in years.”
“I understand. Before I began writing in earnest, I didn’t have much of a purpose in life either. I still wonder if writing novels and political articles is the right use of my time.”
“I’m not the best judge of good ways to spend time.” He chuckled wryly. Pausing a moment, he looked around and sighed. “Maybe I’ve become a little detached from reality here. It’s not hard to do when you have servants to wait on you and an isolated property within which to hide. Do I seem at all barmy to you?”
She laughed. “No more than the rest of us.”
“Ah! Hmm… is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Well, your behavior generally wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.”
“The monk’s cowl might attract attention though,” he remarked lightly.
“Probably, yes,” she admitted with a grin.
“Mind you, my face would be more arresting than my hood.”
“Perhaps. I have no idea.” She paused, shaking her head. “What an odd conversation!”
He shrugged. “We’re an odd pair. Where else can you find a woman who would tolerate any type of relationship when she never sees her companion’s face?”
“True. And though I’m sure you meant it as a manner of speech, I must say that I more than tolerate this relationship. I enjoy your company and look forward to every visit.”
“Thank you,” he replied quietly.
“You’re a good friend, Lord Yawron,” She grinned, playfully using his formal name, “if a little neurotic.”
He turned to face her, the shadows covering his face like a mask. “Does it bother you terribly? Not seeing my face, I mean.”
“Not terribly.” She thought a moment and unconsciously removed her hand from his. It joined its mate in her lap. Her thumbs rubbed together distractedly. “Sometimes I would like to see your face. I want to know if I upset you with what I say. I do tend to be impulsive in my speech. And I suppose there’s a natural desire for people to want eye contact. Other times I forget about the hood entirely. I feel I can imagine your expression, your smile or frown.”
“How? What do you base it on?”
“I draw on the pictures in your mother’s room. That first night when I stayed there, I saw the painting and the photographs. That is the face I see.”
Christopher laughed incredulously. “I haven’t looked like that in over fifteen years.”
Margaret shrugged. “I know it probably isn’t all that accurate. It’s all I have to go on.”
“It's not even close to reality.”
She added brightly. “I won’t hold you to it. I probably don’t look as I did fifteen years ago either.”
“No. You’ve probably improved with age. I, on the other hand… Quasimodo’s first cousin, me.”
“I’m sure you’re not.”
Not accepting her soothing bromide, he scoffed, “You’re right. That would be an insult to Quasimodo. He’s a handsome prince in comparison.”
Shocked by his vitriol, she reacted. Turning away sharply, she exclaimed, “Please, Christopher!”
She did not know precisely why his reaction this time upset her so much. He never hid his disdain for his altered appearance. Yet, since it was so different from his usual smooth manner, his harsh bitterness and self-loathing scraped her nerves. She wanted to put her hands over her ears like a child.
“What?” he asked, a sardonic challenge in his voice.
“Please stop talking like that.”
“I’m only speaking the truth. Would you rather I lied and said I looked like some film idol?”
She turned back and looked at him earnestly. “No, but you don’t have to be so vicious to yourself.”
The earl barked a laugh. “You sound like my mother. She was always going on about accepting what God gave me and making the most of what I had.”
“Maybe you should have listened to her,” she replied harshly, irritated by his dismissive attitude.
Instantly, he straightened his back. The air around them chilled. “Perhaps I should have. She was my mother, and I owed her that much at the very least. To you, however, I have no such obligations.”
Margaret’s temper sparked. She opened her mouth to reply and then shut it like a bear-trap. She spun back around to stare at the beauty around them. The bright colors seemed a little grayer, a little duller on second glance, as if she was looking at a hand-painted photograph.
After a resentful silence, she dropped her gaze, took a deep breath, and admitted, “You’re right, Christopher. I have no claim on you beyond that of a fledgling friendship. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I certainly shouldn’t have involved your mother.”
“No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he replied quietly.
She frowned and spoke swiftly, her tone begging him to understand her, “Yet, I… care for you, and, because of that, your bitterness is painful to hear.”
He reached over and grasped her hand. “Thank you, Maggie. Your concern means much to me. I shouldn’t be so dismissive of it. Believe me, however, when I say that it is more from habit than true bitterness that I say such things. I’ve always had a dark sense of humor, and the last decade and a half has given my sharp wit plenty of ammunition. Sometimes I forget that what I say about myself might upset those around me. I shall try to curb this tendency in future.”
Margaret looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Christopher. And I will try to keep my maternal comments to myself.”
“Pax?”
“Pax.” She put out her hand. He took it in a strong yet careful grip. Raising it slowly, he kissed her fingers.
At the touch of his lips, her skin tingled. She caught her breath in surprise. Her hand twitched slightly as a shiver ran down her spine.
She hadn't known what to expect when he lifted her fingers. Almost anything could be concealed inside his hood. His lips might have been so torn up that they were a maze of scars. He might have had no lips at all.
What she felt was a warm tender kiss from a firm gentle mouth. The approach was slightly to one side as if he were avoiding part of his face. Yet, he did it almost instinctively. There was no faltering unease or self-consciousness about it. His move was pure politeness.
She didn’t pull away! Christopher crowed in his mind.
When he first lifted Maggie’s fingers to his mouth, there was a slight hesitancy. That was hardly surprising. She had expected a handshake, after all. The tension soon dissipated, however.
As he had done with his mother, he brought her fingers to the unscathed side of his face. There was no reason for her to be disturbed by the feel of his scars. Then, he kissed her skin at last.
His heart leaped like a deer. His body trembled. He even imagined that her fingers shook as well. And she did not withdraw her hand! That fact alone made him giddy beyond words.
He kept the display of affection brief. He must maintain decorum, if only for her comfort’s sake. He did not wish to overstep his bounds or alienate her through rash action. The stakes were too high for that sort of gamble.
He lowered her hand slowly. “Thank you, Maggie. I do… value your friendship.”
His voice barely rose above a deep, earnest murmur. Its tone was rich, vibrant, and masculine. Margaret had never heard anything so beautiful and disconcerting.
“You’re very welcome,” she replied through a tight throat.
Suddenly, the sound of a gong boomed over the garden. She jerked, suddenly aware of where she was and what they were doing. He did not flinch, but stood smoothly, easily. Taking his offered hand, Maggie rose, and they strolled to the house for tea.
Though she managed to sustain conversation, she felt oddly distracted throughout the meal. Her nerves seemed jangled. Her hands trembled. Later, she could not even remember what they talked about.
However, long after she returned home, her fingers still felt his kiss.