Duke of Camellias

THIRTY-TWO

He had always knew, deep inside of him, that he wouldn't take the wager seriously. He would never leave his house. He would never trust anyone, not even Blair. As kind as his words were, they would become meaningless once they knew he was a murderer.

He had killed his own father, and he had drove his own siblings to ruin.

When it first had happened, the duchess had cried, crazed. She wept over Cynthia, pale and confined to bed, unable to say anything coherent. She had refused to see her two sons, and even disowned them, for they were a shame. He never knew what happened to them, but he had known they were in debt, for they had to pay off so many people, including noble families.

And then he had to change him name to Emmanuel Waterhouse, and Charles Jesse Waterhouse was declared dead.

In France, he had studied art, but he had never been happy. France had seemed so terribly dull, people talking in a foreign tongue, so busy as they hustled about. He had went to a few salons, and listened to music and poetry, learned translations of English literature, and even met with famous painters, but his heart wasn't into it.

Then he came back, hair long like his brother had it, and he was taller. He decided to give the house in Thornton to the duchess and Cynthia, and left for a smaller mansion in Rue Point, but life was still the same.

So hollow, so terribly sad.

And then he planted camellias, occasionally met with people, and sometimes he slept around, but each time people left, his bed felt colder than before, his heart heavy.

He loathed life.

He wanted to die.

That was his only redemption, to die, like his brother and father had.

But before that, he decided, he would tell his story. Only he would be named Emmanuel and his brother Charles. And he would be the bastard son, while Charles would be the perfect son.

He didn't care which way Blair wrote it, or published it. At first he had wanted everyone to know he was the bastard son, to embarrass the duchess and the long gone Duke for having him, a fake, become heir, and after dying, the money and property bequeathed to the government by his hands—imagine that! His hands.

And he had wanted the world to know he was the murderer, him, Charles, not Emmanuel, who was innocent and yet rested under the grave in his name. It was not right!

But now it didn't truly matter. Blair could write anything. He could be anyone at this point, Emmanuel or Charles. He could be the bastard son, or real son. He could be anyone, but he will die.

The truth of the matter was, when you die, no one gives a second thought.

***

Blair woke up, and was in tears. Was it from a dream, or from yesterday? Or the night they drank? He couldn't understand, and there, in his last day at the mansion, he cupped his face in his hands and sobbed.

It was all over. Why? He had been so sure he could help Emmanuel, bring him away from this terrible house and their terrible camellias. Force him away and set him free, and then stay by his side until he grew used to everything again.

He thought he could love him.

Yet that day, Emmanuel wasn't there for breakfast, as he expected. There would be no sorrowful parting—that was only for lovers, and they weren't.

There at the table was an envelope, but it was not of heartfelt letters, only cold pounds. They were so cold, for they meant they were only Duke and writer. It was true, but he could not bring himself to accept it.