Days passed. Weeks. Months. Summer ended. An earthquake struck Lisbon. Events passed by but I felt no different. I was as “settled” as I could be;  Varlemont was properly furnished, the land well kept, and all my distractions faded. I had nothing to do, nothing to say, and nothing to think. I had to face reality and my reality was this: I was alone.

I had received no word from my brother, who I assumed was content wherever he was, which annoyed me. I wasn’t worried much for his safety but his silence bothered me. It had been months since I last saw him. We all knew of of his elopement so what was he waiting for? My father had made his attempts to drag him back home. I thought of writing a letter to him myself, and I spent much time pondering what to say, but I did not trust the staff enough to do so. He could’ve written to our mother and what harm could’ve come from that? We knew where he was. It’s possible my father keep his letters from me. At the time I believed so. I still choose to believe that. It makes my present situation less painful.

Or more - I haven’t yet decided.

I only had Catherine for company - which was poor. As the weeks passed, she spoke more freely of Paris and Court. Her Majesty had a son; we should go to the Opera, the ballets, or walk the gardens of the Tuilleres. Madame de X hosts a salons in the Marias; her brother received a promotion; her aunt told her this; and a friend that. It all annoyed me. I had no care for any of it. She could’ve told me that Our Saviour himself was seen walking on the Seine and I wouldn’t have cared enough to leave the island I had built for myself.

I missed my mother terribly. I worried for her as for the first time in my life we were separated. The space between use widened with time. I paced around my room for hours as I thought of her. I knew she wasn’t happy and certainly not safe. At times it was easy for me to forget her. At other times I became sick to my stomach from the guilt that came with my idleness. I was safe, in a sense, but she was so far away, encased in stone, suffering and silent, somewhere between dead and alive.

Those thoughts of mine kept me far into the night. I thought of my brother returning, I thought my mother would weep tears of joy and forgive him, and we would live together like we once did, but much happier than before. I thought my brother and I would laugh, fence in the courtyard, and ride our horses in the woods like we used to. I could see my mother again and speak to her without any of the dark burdens that plagued us. The sun would shine, the flowers would bloom, and somewhere in there I would be happy too. That was the only thing I wanted. The only thing I truly want.

There was only one person I never saw in those daydreams on mine - the one obstacle. If he were gone - though I can’t say I imagined killing him much then - say of some common illness or odd accident then that would all come true. My brother would return; why wouldn’t he? My mother would sage and happy; why wouldn’t she? I would be happy myself; why wouldn’t I? I would step from the shadows and the sun would shine on my family once again. There would be nothing left to do other than return to a childhood of domestic bliss and simplicity I longed for. One where my father would never darken the corners of my mind. One where he would be forgotten, where he never existed in the first place. I could return to the easy life I had when I always knew who I was and where to be. I could stay exactly the same forever; I could be free. I knew what I wanted. I knew what I had to do.

I can’t remember when I decided to kill my father. I had no sudden epiphany. No direct cause and effect. He only became far removed from me. He was only another person. As long as he did not bother me, I was content. As long as I was away, he was not a person I had to deal with. I still clung to the child’s fantasy that he was someone to respect; in the depths of his soul he was a man of reason, and he only did what he thought best. That image in my mind, when I looked up at my father from my low station, crumbled to the ground after sixteen long years because I saw him clearly from the distance. I suppose I had always wanted him dead, but much like my violence to myself, it was not ignited by violent passions. In truth, I only wished him gone and that was the end of it.

I received word from my mother to go back to Calais. Catherine smiled brightly in her boudoir when I told her the news. The journey was not a terribly long one but my heart raced the whole way. It had been to long - some two months - since I had last seen her. The presence of the letter itself worried me and throughout the whole journey I wracked my brain trying to figure out why she needed me there. The carriage moved far too slowly and my nerves allowed me no rest. Relief came over me when I saw the faded white facade of the chateau come to my window.

The stagnant air oppressed me. We rode past the dead grass and the scare staff that wondered the grounds in their greys. I became sick to my stomach as the carriage rode closer. I stood in the courtyard gazing up at the large mediaeval tower and the dirtied windows. A cold wind rustled the trees but it was still largely silent. It was an odd feeling of being somewhere so familiar yet no longer mine. I had only been gone for mere months but it seemed I had been gone a decade. Nothing had changed there and it was no longer a home of my own.

I held out a small bouquet of dried daises, her favorite which I picked from my gardens, to my mother as she stood by the window of her salon, “I brought these for you.”

“Ah, lovely!” she said as she took the flowers in her arms and smiled. “Henriette? Find a vase for these.”

She gave the flowers to the maid. I studied her for signs that something was wrong. I thought there had to be a reason she wanted me there, but I saw nothing. Despite her usual fatigue and languidness, she seemed fine and dressed well in a lavender gown for dinner. I wasn’t very convinced, and seeing her again made me ill. I knew where she was and who my father was and I could not escape the sensation that I had abandoned her. I had been solitary, too selfish, to think about her. I should’ve come back sooner but I didn’t. I should have. It has always been a great regret of mine.

“I grew them in my gardens,” I said. “it’s been coming along nicely.”

“That’s good,” she said as she cast her eyes down into the gray courtyard stone below. “There’s no flowers here now. Mine’s barren.”

The gardens were well trimmed but lacked any of the organic foliage I have in Varlemont. My father was partial to the forests, the game, and the chase. He never worried about the gardens other than to the extent everyone else did. Some time ago he bought a gardener from Paris to make something up in the new fashion but he was let go and the gardens had not been well kept since.

The gardens were well trimmed but lacked the organic foliage I have in  Varlemont. My father was partial to the forests, the game, and the chase, so he never worried about the gardens. He only had one because everyone else did, and so he bought a gardener from Paris to make something up in the new fashion. The gardener had been let go a few years before, and it has not been well kept since. 

“I can send my gardener,” I said, “there’s always next spring.” 

“Mayhaps” she said in a low voice as she turned back towards me, “you should give some to Catherine.” 

“I have.” I wasn’t lying. 

“How is she?” I didn’t have a true answer. At no point in the months that passed did I know what she was feeling. 

“Fine.” 

“Happy?” 

“I suppose.” 

She tilted her head at me, “and you?”

 “I am,” I said. Not a lie, but not the truth either. She sat at her small table and held out her arms to me. 

“Come here.” I stepped toward her and held her hands in mine. That was something she did when she wished to say something serious to me. There was a sad glint in her eyes. 

“I want you to know that your happiness is all I wish for,” she said as she squeezed my hands. “I need you to be honest with me.” 

“Alright.” I wavered.

 “I know that-” 

We both turned at the sound of my father walking through the doors. I never learned what she wished to say to me. 

I was seated next to Catherine at supper. The salon had more candles, porcelain, crystal, and staff than on a usual day, but that orchestrated sophistication did not add a new shine to what I knew. The room was still drafty, the windows turned black with the night, and once again I found myself back at the same table with my father. He sat at the head, stoic and unbothered, drinking from his cup as servants set down the silver platters. I kept my eyes down. I only had to let the time pass, and eventually I would be back home.

His mere presence annoyed me. I feared he would say something or look at me in a certain way, which would anger me. His voice grated in my ears, but I kept as cordial as I was able. His tone, which I once thought of as authoritative, became cold, sardonic, and haughty. I noticed how much he ate compared to everyone else, how much he drank, and how much he seemed to please himself. Did he not realize no one else was amused? It was the only time when we were all obliged to be together. I doubt he cared if we were comfortable doing so. At least no one could say he completely neglected his family.

The night wore on, but the clock turned back in time. In a few mere hours, I had become a child again. I settled further into the tar to struggle and suffocate. I saw then, as I stared at him and as he drank in his careless apathy, that as long as he lived on, I would grow only to return to exactly where I began. I never escaped. I ran, only to find my past right in front of me.

"Your wife is very pretty tonight," said my father to me. "Tell her how pretty she is."

Suddenly, I had a severe migraine.

"Yes, very pretty," I muttered, only half glancing at her. She gave me a girlish, blushing smile, which embarrassed me.

"It's about time we had a younger woman here."

I decided not to acknowledge that.

"So," he started up again after I didn't answer, "how is married life?"

"We're well." I didn't wish to give him any more details about my life than I was obliged to.

"He's been gardening," pipped up my mother with a conversational smile, "brought me flowers today."

"Ah, I see." I hoped that was the end of that.

"Too busy planting seeds in your garden, but not your wife-"

What he said after that, I do not know. I had since stopped listening. I saw his mouth move, but I heard nothing as a disgusted, hot rage rose inside me. If it was a comment he made to me alone, I might have brushed it off like all the other snide, insulting comments he enjoyed seeing my reaction to. Except we weren't alone. We were at dinner. In front of my mother, in front of Catherine. That comment alone might have filled me with more anger than anything else he had said to me in my life. Wide may have been the abuses I was willing to tolerate from him, abuses I would justify in my own mind, but she was someone new, someone good, and someone I did not wish to see sink down into the tar with the rest of us.

And he just kept talking.

"My God," I said in a low voice, "can you just shut up?"

His eyes sharpened. A silence rested between us. A silence which grew louder as I braced myself for whatever was going to happen next. I didn't regret it. I stared at him, expecting him to make his next move. I was ready. Only seconds later, his face softened as he laughed.

"Don't be so emotional," he chuckled and smirked. "I was only joking."

Oh, how badly I wanted to bash his face in for that.

Dinner ended quite abruptly after I walked away without saying a word. My mother, followed closely by Catherine, berated me to apologize in the nearby hall. I did not wish it, but I agreed only if I could wait until morning. I could not handle speaking with him anymore that night.

"I apologize for his behavior," I told Catherine outside our adjoining guest rooms, "and mine."

But she only gave me a shy, uncertain smile and fared me goodnight.

I did not sleep. I stayed wide awake, pacing as I did, as the night progressed. If he wished to see me again, I would be ready to do so. I was too busy thinking to sleep anyway. I sat on the floor, my legs up to my chest, at the door that led to Catherine's. I stared off into the moon-dark room, and my thoughts wandered. It was far from the first time he disgusted me, so I didn't know why I was so angered. Was it because I no longer feared him? No matter what happened, I would go home eventually. He was no longer a person of my present, a living anachronism far removed from me. A man who kept me from the life I wished to live and the life my family could have. One where I would never have to return to Calais. I perceived before me that my mother and brother could stay with me in Varlemont, and we could have all been very happy then. I closed my eyes and imagined the past summer, when the sun was still bright, when the smell of the roses from the garden came in from the windows. I had left my true home to find myself once again listening for sounds on the other side of a door.