“You don’t have to believe it for it to be true,” the Doctor smiled good-naturedly.
“Say that it’s true, that a patient of yours has experienced some…inner turmoil,” Talbot said as he twisted his mouth in distaste at the idea thathemight ever fall victim to something like that, “how do you cure such an affliction?”
“We usually recommendchange.Not only a change of air and one’s surroundings, although that is of tremendous help as well, but a change in one’s habits and attitudes, the company he keeps and the like. I always tell my patients to take some time to look into their feelings and search their thoughts. In many instances, theyknowthe reason for their ailment, but are not consciously aware of it.”
Talbot scoffed, annoyed that he had wasted his time, and the Doctor smiled knowingly.
*
A week later, Colin Talbot dreamt that he was in his childhood home, the manor at his family’s Norwich estate. In the dream, his parents were away, in London, and he was free from the heavy cloud of their presence. He felt calm and at peace. As he got ready to go fishing with the other village boys, he was filled with an anticipation and joy that he’d almost forgotten as an adult.Almost.
When he woke up and the memories rushed back into his body, the weight on his chest felt heavier than ever, despite the fact that his father had been dead for ten years and his mother was somewhere in Italy, trying to relive the youth that she felt had been taken from her by Talbot and his father.
He donned his dressing gown and entered his dressing room, where his valet, Stevenson, was already waiting for him. The fire had been lighted, the curtains were open, and the room had clearly been aired. The clothes he was supposed to put on that day were already waiting for him, carefully brushed and cleaned. The water in the bath was hot, and the razors were sharp.
Talbot exhaled in relief as the unchanging and exact nature of the morning ritual brought him a step closer to the man he was now, and away from the boy who had, once upon a time, gone fishing with Stevenson.
“You need a haircut, Your Grace,” the quiet, serious man said as he was cleaning the razors in the washbasin. “Let me take care of it now.”
Talbot said nothing as he observed himself in the looking glass. Stevenson was, of course, right. Talbot couldn’t remember the last time he’d let his hair grow this long - perhaps during his youthful adoration of Brummel, before he’d developed his own style.
Talbot took further solace in the familiar motions of Stevenson’s hands as the valet later tied his cravat, helped him into his waistcoat, then his coat, assembling all these ordinary items into an armour which would allow him to survive another day.
“It is Wednesday,” the duke said, somewhat stupidly.
Stevenson merely hummed as he looked him over one last time, then nodded, satisfied with his work.
He has always been unfailingly thorough, even as a young boy, Talbot thought before adding, “I’ll be going to Almack’s tonight.”
“Of course.”
“I shall be leaving at eight.”
If Stevenson was surprised by the unusually early hour of his master’s departure, he didn’t let on. He busied himself with putting the various items used for his master’stoiletteaway, and Talbot went into his study.
A package was waiting on his desk. The elation and excitement he usually felt whenever unpacking new books were absent. Upon seeingThe Monastery,he did experience an emotion, but it was an unpleasant one.
He suddenly realised he’d never have the opportunity to discover whatshethought ofIvanhoe.Would she have an irreverent opinion that would amuse him greatly? Would she, like she often did, notice something that he’d completely missed and open his eyes to a new perspective?
Alas, the morning after that damned conversation (during whichshethreatened to refuse any future invitations to dance with him, a Duke!) all the books that he had so carefully selected to nurture her imagination and stimulate her intellect were returned to his house without even so much as a note.
Low breeding,he had thought disdainfully, hating himself immediately for thinking it, but clinging to the thought as if it were his salvation from the hell he was living in.
Hell. That was exactly it.
Dear Lord, is there a way to rip this discomfort from my chest?He thought.
Not even Lady Violet’s refusal to marry him had stung this much.
My pride is hurt,he realised,that is why it is taking this long to move past this.
What was he supposed to have said that night in the library?
That he’d be happy to marry a bastard?
That his ancestors wouldn’t be turning over in their graves if he brought someone likeherto Norwich?
That he’d be happy to go against everything that had been instilled in him since he’d been old enough to talk?
