“I tried to sit with him, but we’re like oil and water so much of the time. He has no experience in running an estate this size, no training to speak of, being a second son, and yet he was the only one who stepped forward with assistance.”

“I am sorry this all came about. I had no idea you were that ill, or we would have been here. As it was, he informed us about it later, when you were already on the mend.” Darcy shook his head “Regardless, I should have contacted you; it was unforgivably childish of me to sulk so long, and he never told me about your steward or your secretary! Both incapacitated at the same time—imagine that. Quite a bit of bad luck, that.”

“Don’t give me that smug look!” She glanced sideways at him and smiled. “Yes, Darcy, I know they are old—just as I am, but, heavens, I cannot just push them out if they don’t wish to leave! I owe them so much, and they are part of my family. They are just as much a part of Rosings as I am and I will keep them all around me for as long as I can!”

They sat together for more than an hour and talked about old times and memories long forgotten. They laughed a little and cried a little until Darcy let out a great yawn and stretched his arms.

“Well, I must get to bed, and so should you, Catherine.” He helped her to her feet, and she suddenly appeared very tiny and frail to him. Gone was her immense wig, and in its place, a graying braid rested over her shoulder, most of her hair hidden under her favorite nightcap. Her feet were in slippers instead of the higher-heeled shoes she wore to give herself a needed inch or two, and the wrinkles around her eyes and face were more exposed now that she was unadorned with powder or lip rouge or the mysteriously moving patch that Richard and he used to laugh about.

“I don’t sleep as much as I used to, Darcy,” she said. “As you get older, it becomes harder to turn off memories, and believe me, they devil you to distraction at night. You get off to bed, though. The storm is still wailing outside, and you have a lovely young wife awaiting you who will want comforting during all the thunder. You need not give this old woman any more of your time.”

Darcy hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead before saying good night. Then she was alone again. She thought that perhaps she would go to Anne’s room and check on her, a mother’s habit that would never die.

Picking up her candle, she went out into a hall dimly lit with wall sconces, smiling when she saw Darcy close the door to his suite of rooms. That was good—another of her babies would soon be safely in bed.

She padded her way down to Anne’s suites to look in at her sleeping daughter, walking over quickly to close the windows that were allowing in some of the pouring rain. Clucking and grumbling, she brought a towel from the linen drawer and placed it over the rain-soaked carpet. Will these children never learn to listen to me? She harrumphed.

With relaxation still eluding her, she decided to check on the other rooms, to make certain servants were everywhere if needed. Jamison had done a good job, she noted to herself, as there appeared to be a footman every ten feet, the lightning outside illuminating the old mansion every few moments. She turned down the far hallway toward Fitzwilliam’s rooms, laughing to herself at his earlier comments. He truly was rather far from the main part of the house. He and Darcy had always had the west wing of rooms to themselves whenever they visited. She felt bachelors should have their privacy, especially from a nosy old aunt.

She saw a faint light below his door . Is Fitzwilliam still awake? It must be nearing 3:00 a.m. The two footmen assigned there bowed at her approach, which she amiably acknowledged, and then on her signal, one knocked softly on the door. After a few moments, she heard her nephew’s gruff bark. “Who is it?”

“Eleanor of Aquitaine. May I enter?”

She heard him chuckle. “Enter at your own peril. The Lionheart is in residence.”

When the door opened, he arose slowly from his seat before the fire. Her eyes immediately focused on the balcony doors as she approached him. They were flung wide, allowing in the cooling air.

“Good heavens, Richard, it’s raining outside, you fool.” She marched over to the doors to close them, barely refraining herself from closing the windows also. “It is freezing in here.”

“Aunt Catherine, the rain is not coming in this direction, and the room is only now beginning to cool down. God in heaven, woman, how can you think it freezing? Are you completely devoid of blood?” His eyes were scowling even as his lips fought off a smile.

“What a ridiculous thing to say! Of course I have blood, extremely blue blood, as you well know, and don’t call me ‘woman’ in that tone, as if I’m a tavern wench or camp follower or French.” He turned away to hide his grin as she sat in the chair next to his.

“What on earth are you doing up at this late hour?” She leaned toward him as he sat, stared at him with concern, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes. An empty glass and nearly empty whiskey bottle were on the table next to him.

“I couldn’t sleep.” His voice sounded a bit rough. “It happens to me now and then, especially during thunderstorms. That’s why I like the doors and windows open. I dislike being locked in when it rains.”

“You’re a young healthy man; of course you can sleep. Don’t be ridiculous! Apply yourself.”

As he settled his back into the chair, he studied her face from lowered eyes. Much of the weight she had lost during her illness had not returned, and he noticed that her skin looked paper-thin, that her graying hair looked wiry where it was not confined within her braid. She looked brittle almost, fragile as glass.

“God, but I feel old tonight, Richard.” She removed her cap to vigorously scratch the back of her head, yawning loudly. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, and she saw a room in disaster—clothes and shoes thrown about, dishes resting upon the floor. His valise was opened but unpacked and rested on a bench beneath his window.

Her eyes grew huge. “Good heavens!” She was certainly wide awake now. “Richard Fitzwilliam! Did I not send up a footman to act as your valet this visit?” As any mother would instinctively do, she arose from her seat and began picking up shirts and pants, straightening chairs and stacking the amazing array of dirty plates, all the time grunting and clucking her tongue with every dirty stocking and wrinkled neck scarf.

This was the last thing he needed this evening. His eyes rolled in irritation. “Yes, you did… I sent him away.”

She turned to him. “Whatever for?”

“He didn’t like me.”

“Well, of course he didn’t like you— he’s a servant!” After placing the folded clothes upon his dresser and the plates on the sideboard, she sat back down again. “To paraphrase our dear Lord, ‘No prophet is without honor except with his own valet.’”

For a moment she engaged in a struggle to return her nightcap properly to her head, finally assuring herself that it was situated correctly. Exhausted from her ordeal, she sighed loudly. “Not all servants are as loyal as your batboy, O’Malley. Where is he, by the way?”

Fitzwilliam rubbed his eyes. “That’s my batman, not batboy, and for some unexplained reason, he wished to remain in London and spend some private time alone with his wife before we return to Paris.”

His aunt’s only response was an uninterested, “How fascinating.”

He regarded her with a mischievous grin on his face. “And what on earth are you doing up at this late hour, stalking the hallways like the demented Lady Macbeth?”

“Well, as people age, they don’t need quite as much sleep as the young.”

“In that case, I wonder that you bother coming up to your room at all,” he mumbled then grinned when he saw her glare.

“I heard that. You are becoming much too cheeky, young man. I was talking with Darcy, if you must know.” She smiled. “It was good to speak of old times again with him. But he went off to bed, and so should you!” Her gaze slid once again over the bottle on the table then to the empty glass. Their eyes met.

“You seem to be drinking quite a bit, Richard.” Her voice had grown serious and quiet. “Much more than I ever remember, and I am growing more and more concerned about you, do you know that?” Her brow arched in inquiry as she watched him, waiting for his response. She was never one to be subtle.

“Awww… please do not start in on me again, Aunt,” he groaned. His shoulders hunched forward, and he rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his neck with his hand. “I am not up to battle form tonight.”

“This is not to be borne, Richard, it really isn’t. You have such a… a heaviness about you at times that it breaks my heart. If there is something bothering you, you should speak to someone. Speak to Darcy. Do you feel ill? Or do you still feel the effects of the battles? Your injuries? Waterloo? Talk to a doctor, perhaps, but find out what troubles you so.”

He stared into the fire for a long time. Although the nightmares and flashbacks had, thankfully, begun to lessen, lightning and thunder always seemed to trigger his memories once again. How could he tell anyone of what he had been through, what he had done, what brutality he had seen these past ten years, battle after battle, mankind’s atrocities to the weaker and more vulnerable? War was nothing but legalized butchery. It was condoned insanity.

The ghosts of the past would sometimes flood back with the dark, so he kept the candles burning. Still, he was haunted with the sounds of men and animals screaming, the smell of blood and gore in his hair and on his hands, the smell of urine and shit and fear, the screams of maniacs in the heat of battle, the soldiers who viciously raped and tortured. His eyes squeezed shut at the memories. The storm outside raged on.