The Beauty of Coincidence | manxman | (Historical Fiction)

XXXII - Passionflower

Victor continued to lay awake in his bed, the heated company of Reynold's bare body beside him the only presence near to him that offered calming peace. He'd shut his eyes several hours ago, but found himself in constant thought, unable to reach that slip of slumber that usually encased him at such an hour. His mind was occupied yet again with the past images of what state he'd been in after the fall. The mangled and tormenting agony had been the worst he'd ever felt in his entire life. The stitches, readjustments, and long nights of shivering had put him in a mind state that begged for forgiveness.

Forgiveness from what

 Victor hadn't been sure what he would have begged God to forgive him for, but he used to assume there must have been a reason for putting him through such an ordeal. His torture had often lasted into the night back then, as at least his days of pain had been quelled by what his father had referred to as Poppy's Tea. Victor hadn't a clue exactly what the brew contained, but it'd worked wonders on his miserable distress. Until night rolled around.

He recalled how he'd wanted to beg for his father to make it all go away, the only person in his life back then he could have envisioned being able to accomplish such a thing, but Norman had stated Poppy's Tea could only be consumed in certain hours during the day. Apparently it wasn't something meant to be indulged in too often, less it caused a certain effect in the consumer that may be irreversible.

Victor remembered what had been the only time in his life he ever uttered the words "I hate you" to his father. He hadn't meant it, knew more than ever he couldn't possibly ever mean such a statement, but his pains had been too raving during that time he'd been desperate for the tea, for its ability to heal him from the stings for several hours of the day. It was only now, Victor wondered if his father had restricted Poppy's Tea given the anger and desperation for it that'd followed Victor until his external wounds healed over. Was it a madness tea? Victor could only wonder now, and hope he'd never need the mystery concoction ever again.

Unable to sleep at all, Victor moved from beneath the covers and stood out of bed. Bare as well from his usual nightwear, he stood nude before the moonlit window and crossed his arms before his chest. The early hours were particularly darker given the plump clouds that covered the sky, but there was the faintest glow of the sun preparing to rise over what would be a gray summer day. He felt sluggish and wanted to find a similar state of slumber as Reynold certainly had been able to through the night, but the possibilities flooding his mind hadn't allowed him what was beginning to feel like a luxury: peace of mind. The stain his dark burgundy wine had left on the stones of the veranda last night had started something in him he wanted to go away.

Glancing to the nightstand beside the bed, Victor took the letter he'd been in the middle of writing to his father and re-lit the lantern beside it. Offering a dim glow, its faint light seemed to prompt Reynold to turn over in bed away from the minimal lighting. Victor read over the agitation and suspicions he'd made against his own step-mother. To himself, he wondered what his father would think the moment he read over the claim. It was surely serious enough to cause a freeze of judgment in the man's wife, wasn't it? After all, if Ida could so boldly seek the death of Louise Marchal, who's to say she wouldn't put her sights on the woman's own son, the first born and recognized heir of the Ramsey estate. What mother in these times wouldn't be upset that her fully legitimate son wasn't first in line when he should have been... if not for Norman's straying from the path his life was supposed to take?

Releasing a long breath, Victor crumpled the paper in his hands and tossed it to the floor. All of this, it was in the past, so the young lord pondered if such events should stay there. After his mother's passing, Norman had taken Ida's hand, fathered two additional children with her, and had given her the life he was expected to have given her in the beginning if he hadn't strayed in the first place. Things were nearly how they were supposed to be, save for his very existence, of course, but that didn't change the fact that Norman married Ida, likely kissed her every day they were together, continued to lay with her, and surely they professed love for one another. A marriage between two people couldn't possibly last without such a confession presenting itself, right? Also, would it upset Norman to an extent if Victor were to arise from the blue with an accusation so dire? No longer wishing to risk it, he tried to push the notion from his mind and hoped to simply forget with time. He wanted to forget.