Page 72 of From Unwanted to Duchess
He turned around and went to sit on the chaise, and Frances quickly joined him.
“My brother was foolish for engaging in a duel because of his love for a woman who did not care for him. A matter of honor over a woman unworthy of such devotion. He made me his second that day. I came with him, even though I urged him against it. I even considered telling our father, who I knew would have put an end to it, but I couldn’t betray my brother in such a way. So I went with him, and it all took place. He was shot in the shoulder.”
He closed his eyes, smelling gunpowder once more. That acrid scent that still haunted his dreams.
“It was dreadful. He fell, bleeding. Hollingsworth was in shock. I did not think he—I did not think he believed he could hit my brother. He and his second rushed away, and I carried Marcus back to the house. A physician was summoned, and he was patched up. We thought the worst was over, but how wrong we were. The bullet hit his shoulder, so it was not deadly, just inconvenient. My father was not home when it happened.”
Frances saw the worry in her eyes. She didn’t know what to expect. Who could?
“My father returned that evening, and upon hearing what had happened, he becameincensed. Flew into a towering rage.”
“At the man who shot your brother?” she asked.
“One would think so, but no. His anger was directed at me because I allowed the duel to go ahead.”
“How old were you?”
He shrugged. “Nineteen. In his opinion, old enough to know better.”
“But how old was your brother?” Frances prodded.
“He was twenty-two. But do not forget, he was the heir. He was to be always kept safe and secure because he was the one to continue the line.”
James got up again and paced the room. For a moment, the sound of his footsteps was the only thing filling the silence between them.
He turned, running his hand along a bottle of whiskey that stood on the sideboard, then dropped it.
“It was in this very room. My father called me in here and rang a right peal over my head. More than that, he struck me, which was nothing new. He had done it before. I bore the marks of his displeasure often enough.”
He rubbed his jaw, where his father had hit him all those years ago, as though he could still feel the ghost of it.
“He used to hit you?”
“Often,” he muttered. “Sometimes he would whip me with a belt. Sometimes with a rope. But in any case, in that moment, I had had enough. I was not going to be blamed for things I did not do. My temper got the better of me. I was not going to be hit as though I were a child. So I struck him back. I can still feel the palm of my hand burning. We tussled, we fought. I fell to the ground in front of this fireplace, and he was choking me. His hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me. I was sure he was going to kill me. My own father.”
Frances gulped, her eyes watering as they widened in horror.
“I grabbed the fire poker, thinking if I could strike my father in the head, or even in the arm, I’d free myself and get away. It was the only thing I could think to do at that moment. So I reached for it and grabbed it. But Father wrestled it out of my hand and swung backward. No doubt to strike me.”
James took a deep breath.
“What Father didn’t know was that Marcus had rushed over to snatch the poker from him, but Father didn’t see him. He was bent over my father, trying to pull him off of me, when the poker hit the side of his head. Father had sat up to hit me, you see. He swung the poker back and instead hit Marcus in the head, and Marcus lost his balance. He tumbled sideways and slammed his head directly into the fireplace. His skull cracked open right there.” He pointed to the spot in front of the chaise.
Frances lifted her feet on instinct, as though the blood was still pooling on the floor.
“I cradled him, but he died in my arms. His last words were ‘Not your fault, James.’ But it was. It was my fault. Don’t you understand, Frances? He died because of me. I have blood on my hands,” James said hoarsely. “My brother’s blood. How can you look at me knowing that?”
“Because it was not your fault,” Frances said fiercely. “Because you are not your father. You are nothing like him.” She looked him right in the eye. “You did nothing wrong. Your father attacked you for no reason. You were defending yourself. Any man would have done the same. You did nothing wrong. And you cannot seriously blame yourself?—”
“But I do,” he cut her off. “Don’t you understand? My father was a horrible, violent man. I should’ve walked away when he summoned me. I already knew what he was going to say. I should’ve left. I shouldn’t have fought him. If I hadn’t fought him, if I hadn’t reached for the poker, Marcus would still be alive.”
“No.” Frances rose from her seat. “Walking away would have made no difference. He would have found another reason to attack you. It was not your fault. Your father was horrible. He did not care for you. He mistreated you the same way my father mistreated me, although he did not hit me. But there are other forms of abuse. Neglect, cruelty, coldness—these wounds cut just as deep. In any case, it was not your fault, just as it was not my fault.” She placed her hands on his cheeks. “You must stop blaming yourself.”
“But I do blame myself. Every time I hear a gunshot, I think of that wretched duel and of Marcus’s injury. I think of the way my father reacted to it all. I should’ve stopped the duel.”
“You are not responsible for everything. You have done nothing wrong. It was your brother’s idea to have a duel and appoint you as his second. It was your father’s responsibility for how he reacted to it.”
James shook his head. “Thank you for trying to comfort me, but the fact remains. I am responsible?—”
