Chapter ten - Gilbert

Gilbert stepped away from the door and stumbled to a stop, so overwhelmed by emotion he was almost brought to his knees. Painful flashes blazed through his mind. Horrible memories he usually held locked away to avoid guilt and pain overwhelmed him. But when the woman had been scrambling towards that fireplace, it all came rushing back. It was only his immediate concern for the girl's safety and the actions required that kept the horror at bay. That is until she commented on his obvious experiences with fire. He'd barely kept it all bottled inside. The moment he was assured she would be safe on her own, he'd grabbed the bucket, thankful for the excuse to escape. He'd almost made it to the door when, in that quietly musical voice, she'd asked about the fire that had stolen his voice. He could no longer hold back the deluge. He didn't even need to close his eyes. Those terrible images were imprinted on his eyeballs.

Deadly flames licking up the walls of the old manor house. Servants dashing back and forth in total chaos. Panicked voices screaming and shouting.  Dashing for the front doors, bellowing desperately for his wife. Determinedly, charging through the hungry blaze. Billowing black smoke so thick it was nearly impossible to see. Coughing and choking and desperately searching for his wife and child. Mounting the main staircase, intent on reaching the private chambers on the upper story. The sudden crack and the horrendous crash of the manor coming down around him. Staggering under an unexpected blow and then falling as the staircase went out from under him. It was the last thing he remembered about that dreadful day.

It wasn't until weeks later that he was informed of exactly what had happened. According to his father's solicitor, the entire ceiling had collapsed, and one heavy beam struck him just as the staircase gave way beneath his feet. Luckily, his body rode the steps all the way, cushioning the drop, and, when he landed, it happened to be on the only section of floor to have escaped the inferno. The beam pinning him down had also acted as a barrier. Protecting his body from the raining debris and providing him with a void, sheltering him from most of the destruction. If not for the servants who found him and pulled him out, he, too, would have perished in the blaze. He soon came to wish he had.

The physician hired by his father's solicitor was a thorough and conscientious professional. Every vile concoction ever devised had been utilized to treat his multiple injuries, laudanum chief among them. For months, he was imprisoned in a drug induced haze, barely conscious the majority of that time. Even when he managed to swim up out of the murky depths, he existed in a living hell. His body eternally aflame with agony, covered in severe burns and lacerations.

The flaming beam that had struck him down and pinned him to the buckling floor had permanently branded his skin, searing across his chest, over his shoulder, and down his back. His hands and arms were blistered so badly from the heat most of the skin had pealed right off. The hair on his head was a melted mass. They were forced to shave him bald. His throat was raw, and even the simple act of breathing caused untold agony. He coughed up endless vile fluids of all gross shades. Sometimes, he felt as if he would literally cough his lungs from his chest. The heaving was so exceedingly deep and painful. But the worse injury wasn't discovered until he woke after months of convalescence and attempted to question the doctor.

The noxious fumes and choking smoke he had breathed during the fire had not only scarred his lungs and throat but absolutely destroyed his vocal cords. He could barely utter a sound. But none compared to the devastation in his soul.

His beloved Rose and their darling baby Ruth had succumbed to the fire. Their bodies were found much later, both burned almost beyond recognition. Just the idea gave him nightmares. He had failed them both. He was no better a husband and father than his own neglectful parent. He hadn't even been able to see them before they were interred. It was all over by the time he regained enough of his wits to realize they were gone.

His father's solicitor had seen to the financial details and logistics of the final arrangements. The Duke did not deem it necessary to venture away from his own estate to perform such rudimentary tasks himself. Nor did any of the rest of the family make the effort to even attend the funeral. There was only the Vicar and the solicitor to see his wife and child properly interred. They had not even been permitted space in the ancestral vault beneath the private chapel at the Ducal family seat. No, instead, they were buried together in the village churchyard.

It had been left to the solicitor to inform him of the situation when he was finally able to rouse himself from that drug-induced haze. The tragic news sent him even further into purgatory. The loss of his beautiful Rose and precious Ruth had broken him. Crushing guilt and inconsolable grief consumed him. It was as if he existed in a glass bubble after that terrible day. Nothing penetrated the fog of his devastation. He barely acknowledged his own injuries. His body would heal but his heart and soul were dead and buried.

In the weeks and months that followed his recovery, he fought a constant battle with fate, demanding to know why he had been spared. Why could he not have perished with his loved ones? He even contemplated suicide. His depression was so severe that the doctor and solicitor had both taken their concerns to his father. It was Father's reaction, which had enraged Gilbert enough to shake him from his determined grief.

A letter. Not even a formal visit or a summons but a letter. A formal admonition and demand he stop behaving like an uncouth barbarian and get on with his life. He was commanded to rebuild the manor house, remarry, and start over. He was to cease disgracing the family name immediately and cease creating such an unnecessary spectacle. Forget the woman. She was only a commoner, after all. Find himself a sweet little debutante and bring a large dowry into the family coffers.

Disgusted by the callous diatribe, Gilbert had crumpled the paper in his fist and flung it into the chamber pot where it belonged. He was incensed. So, he was 'disgracing the family' by 'creating such an unnecessary spectacle of himself ', was he? Well then, he would not be a part of the precious 'family'.

With cold determination, he cut all family ties. He had dismissed the doctor and the solicitor, sold the small manor, and everything that went with it. After divvying out wages to the staff, he took what profit there was, turned and walked away. He abandoned his father's surname and invented one for himself. Since he was often referred to as a 'bear of a man', he decided to become a bear. Simply by altering the French word, he became Lourson, the big bear.

He took a few deep, calming breaths as he glanced around his property. A decade of wandering the country, taking jobs wherever he could find them. Many years of hard toil, immersing himself in the role of common laborer. Because of his inability to speak, many of the people treated him as if he were an imbecile. Many were frightened by his size and scruffy appearance, and he sometimes had difficulty finding work. Then he had come across this ruin.

It was perfect for what he had in mind. Abandoned, neglected, and dilapidated, he felt an instant affinity for the place. It was a perfect spot to hide himself away. When he inquired about buying the property, he was surprised to discover the owner was an affluent merchant in town. The greedy shopkeeper immediately drove a hard bargain. Gilbert had to spend a good portion of his hard earned coin, but it was well worth the sacrifice.

Just like that, the property called 'Smollett Castle' was his. In no time, he finished the repairs on the keep and installed himself in the old kitchens, the only room anywhere near habitable. Work on repairing the rest of the old castle to make it at least comfortable for himself kept him well occupied. On the whole, it is a very satisfying project for a man of his talents. There was plenty of woodland to harvest for timber. Small clearings to replant seedlings for future use as well as a vegetable garden to offset his dietary needs. He could trade his carvings for any other basic supplies he would require in the nearby village.

As his thoughts turned to the more mundane details of his present life, he was finally able to reign in his dark memories and stuff them back into the corner of his mind where he could lock them away. Taking deep, cleansing breaths, he straightened and pulled his mind back to the present and the many mundane tasks ahead of him. After discarding the contents of the pot, he turned and headed towards the pump. Dipping the fouled vessel in the trough, he worked the liquid slowly around and then dumped it onto the ground. A few more repeats, and he set the crock aside and reached for the handle of his water bucket. After that bought of retching, she would be especially dry and thirsty. The nausea would only persist if she didn't have access to water. He should have refilled his indoor water barrel earlier. The thing was nearly empty. He grabbed the pump handle and started working it up and down as he slid the bucket under the stream.

"Hold!" The deep command was instantly followed by the unmistakable double click of a pistol being cocked.

Gilbert froze. Cautiously, he turned his head and was surprised to see three men on horseback sitting in the middle of his dooryard. The path from the front of the castle to the rear grounds was difficult enough to follow on foot. These men had made it aound on horseback. Gilbert gingerly lowered the bucket to the ground and slowly straightened to his full height, careful to keep his arms loose at his sides. The last thing he needed was to be shot merely for moving too quickly.

"Watch him, Daimler. He's dangerous." The rotund man seated between the other two warned.

He immediately recognized the town merchant. That explained how they had found their way through the dense woods. If you did not know the castle was hidden here, you could very easily pass it right by. Only if one knew the crumbling ruin was here could you find it. The portly shopkeeper knew of the property and its location having sold Gilbert the land.

From his frantic gestures and strident accusations, Narwhal was the impetus for this invasion. His face was coated in sweat, his pudgy cheeks flushed with temper. His eyes sparked with outrage as he glared across the yard at Gilbert. But even as his rage festered, it was obvious the man did not care for riding astride. He looked extremely uncomfortable in the saddle. His hands nervously clutched the reins, pulling them taut and causing his mount to trumpet in protest. Gilbert pitied the poor animal. The man ignored the horse's distress as his beady eyes skipped all around the small yard, obviously searching for something. Then his beady gaze returned to Gilbert, and the shopkeeper curled his lip as if he smelled.

Gilbert purposely turned his attention to the other two men with him. Neither was familiar to him, but at a guess, the older gentleman pointing the pistol was the sheriff. He wasn't a big man. Average size, well dressed, with a stiff military bearing. A grandfatherly fellow with a heavy mustache that nearly covered his lips, greying and thick with eyebrows to match. Unlike the merchant, this man sat comfortably on his mount and regarded Gilbert with stern but neutral patience. The pistol held comfortably in his fist was a fine piece, obviously old and worn but well cared for. His mount was also a fine animal. Not pretty but sleek, strong, and sturdy, probably picked more for its strength and stamina than for its looks. This was a man of some means who knew the value of quality over appearance.

The third fellow had the look of an average hired man. Dressed in homespun wool, soft and worn, the colors faded and perfect for blending into his surroundings. He was young but beyond the first flush of youth, clean shaven, and well tanned. Obviously, the fellow spent the majority of his time outdoors. He sat his mount patiently, with a hunting rifle casually draped across his lap. Gilbert reasoned he was probably the Sheriff's deputy.

"Just stay where you are. We are looking for a young woman." The Sheriff began gruffly.

"Where's the girl?" The pudgy merchant interrupted, his voice echoing shrilly in the small clearing. "We know she's here."

"Calm down, Narwhal. We will find the girl." The sheriff gruffly reminded him, his gaze never wavering from Gilbert.

"He took her, Daimler. I know he did." The portly merchant persisted, practically screeching with frustration. "He was in the store the same day she disappeared. Nobody saw her after he left. It had to be him." He sneered at Gilbert as he continued. "He kidnapped my fiancée"