Cold.
Desolate.
Alone.
The words thrum through my head in an endless refrain as I place my hand against the frosty glass, letting the chill seep into me. But I don’t feel it. Everything is numb, hollow, and so desperately fractured as I stare down at what should be a wintry tableau.
The glare of the sun is muted somehow, as if the skies themselves feel the sorrow of my soul and thus hide the light, refusing to allow it to intrude on the melancholy of my thoughts. For a moment, I look to and fro, refusing to glance upon what’s causing my heart so much agony. But I cannot look away forever.
I can’t play these childish games in my mind. As a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman, soon to possibly go into heat, I must put away such frivolity and face my problems head-on. And so, despite the tugging of my heartstrings, I turn my gaze downward, staring at the large carriage, poised to leave.
My lady’s maid glances up at me from in front of the door leading into the infernal coach waiting to whisk her from my side. Her eyes widen for a moment before she blinks the snow away. Or is it her tears? From here, I can’t tell, though my heart whispers the truth to me in such blatant tones.
And that’s when I feel it. The painful thump of the useless organ beating beneath my breastbone. When Father died, I thought my heart went with him, buried beneath the ground where it can no longer pain me; however, just standing here, my fingers clenched into a fist at my side while the other hand splays against the glass in a silent pleading for her to stay, I know it still resides, ever-beating, ever-feeling, ever-agonizing.
Even now, her scent fades from within my nostrils, and soon, I know I’ll not be able to remember it. It’s funny how that works. Even with my heightened sense of smell, some scents just won’t stay. If only there was a way to bottle them.
With Father, it’s simple. Just one smell of his pipe, and I’ll be transported back. But with my lady’s maid, Mary? What can I smell to bring her back? It’s not as if she has anything remarkable about her she’s leaving behind.
With the way my cousin Asher, now the current Earl of Middlehey, is cleaning house, she’s lucky to leave with the clothes on her back. Everything else has been sold off. Same as her redundant clothes. Same as my father’s pipes. Soon, I’ll have no way of remembering either of them without sitting with my memories.
We both stand there, locked in an unwanted battle of inevitability, as she curtsies one final time and climbs into the carriage. Anger burns in my chest, edging out the pain that afflicts me. Somehow, we no longer have the funds to keep my lady’s maid employed - friend and confidant that she is - and yet, Asher can still keep both a stately carriage and a more casual phaeton, along with the thoroughbreds to carry them.
To my calculations, selling at least one of these modes of transportation, along with two of those four horses, should have been more than enough to pay off my father’s supposed debts and allowed me to keep the one person I had left in the world. I long to tear at my hair as I puzzle through the mathematics. I know of art, philosophy, and science, but nothing of money.
With all the lessons I lapped up at the feet of my father, this was the one thing he would never teach me. I asked to see the accounts, to have him show me where the money went and how to manage it. But he refused. Laughably, it’s the one thing he never indulged me in. Such a curious matter that I was fit to learn as well as any man, but with finances, that was a line too far.
To him, that was the job of my husband. The man controls the money and not the woman. How I wish I could go back in time and beg him, making him see reason. But hopes and wishes amount to nothing.
I wish he had told me something, anything. Even if it wasn’t a true education. Just something so I didn’t feel so ill-prepared when his untimely death ripped him from my arms. On his deathbed, the only thing he told me was he had made sure I was taken care of. No elucidation, no clarification on what ‘taken care of’ meant.
With no other male heir, everything went to Asher, and I had no choice but to let him take over, relying on him to tell me the state of our affairs. If Father had shown me something, a ledger here or there, perhaps we wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. But even my cousin wouldn’t let me see anything.
In fact, the very question seemed to gall him, driving him into fits of rage, some nameless sense of anger and terror that tied my insides into knots. Though he never harmed me, his screams as he threw my father’s books and documents about seized my insides, setting my body to quake. I never asked again and vowed to rescue what I could from the office when I could.
As much as I loathe to think of my father in an unseemly light, considering our past, I’m forced to wonder if he was keeping something from me. Is this truly why he never allowed me even a glance at his spending? Because he was gambling it away instead of preparing for our future? My future?
If Father had just come to me, I’m sure I could have helped him in some way. Maybe I could have given him other things to do besides while away our fortunes in some secret room somewhere. But as it is, I’m forced to stand there, unspent tears burning in my eyes, and rage thumping hard in my chest as I watch the carriage move forward, disappearing into the heavy blanket of snow. I stand there, a silent sentinel, refusing to leave my post as my gaze searches out any hint she’s still within eyesight, straining past the fat, wet flakes encircling the house. They keep falling, enshrining everything into a muffled tomb.
And with that, she’s the last of my life leaving the Middlehey household. With her leaving, it draws up far more questions than there are answers. I continue to stare out into the bleak, wintery mess as my mind drifts, conjuring every memory and scrutinizing it with an unfeeling eye. Were there signs I didn’t see?
Though I am not worldly in an improper way, I still have some bits of knowledge, mostly from my father, but also from listening in on the servants. Typically, those who gambled were away from the house, constantly visiting gaming hells and partaking in cups. But that was never Father. He was home more often than abroad, only venturing out to attend to matters of Parliament.
After Mother died, we were rarely separated, spending our nights either reading or conducting some experiment. When did he have the time to squander his money? Something isn’t adding up. Since I’m not at all able to access the books, I cannot put the pieces together for myself.
Not that I’d understand it fully, anyway. It’s not like with my science and philosophy books, where everything is laid out in black and white. I have no concept of figures, no comparisons to go by. Sure, the math part I can handle, but I have no idea what things are supposed to cost and what’s appropriate spending or not.
A weary sigh slips from my lips as I lean forward, resting my forehead against the window. The cold feels good against my fevered skin, reminding me I’m still alive and not some shell of a being forced to roam these halls like a spectre or wraith. Still though… As much as I rejoice in the fact I’m not dead, there is a part of me that wonders if my current existence is even living.
I stand there at the window, my thoughts drifting about like the snow, but eventually, I have no choice but to admit she’s gone. The one person I could talk to, confide in. She was the only solace I had in this empty world. Now, I’m completely alone in this house full of people who do not have my best interest in mind. Another sigh heavy on my lips, I pull away from the study window and glance about the space.
Asher will be home soon, and my presence in what’s now his study will make him angry. When I entered this ‘sacred realm’ it wasn’t just to say my silent goodbyes. This reasoning is an alibi, at best. There are far more important matters to attend to now that my heart is fully ripped from my breast. I shove the pain aside, concentrating instead on the subterfuge afoot.
I must hurry if I want any hope of rescuing a few precious tomes from my father’s haven and place them in the library unscathed. Sliding my fingers along the books we used to read together, my throat tightens as more emotions flood my senses, emotions I had just recently cast aside for the sake of remaining unfeeling.
And yet, as if none of it even matters, I’m right back to where I was mere moments ago when I bid farewell to my last friend. I’m right back to that moment when I stood beside my father’s bed, holding his hand as he took his last rattling breath. Try as I might, nothing I do can let me feel at peace for more than a handful of minutes.
It’s been nearly six months since he left this mortal plane, and yet I still grieve his loss, feel it keenly, as if it happened only yesterday. I’ve endured six months where I should have been able to manage my feelings and put these futile longings aside. Six months since that horrid cousin of mine has taken over the house and turned it upside down. Six months, though it feels more like six days, six hours, six minutes… six seconds. It still slices me to my core with every breath.
If only father were still here. Silent sobs threaten to choke me as my vision blurs, obscuring the letters on the worn spines. But I don’t need to see them to know what they are. I can tell by their feel, their smell. It doesn’t matter that Asher has taken everything from me; he won’t be able to take my memories.
Off in the distance, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone jolts me out of my foray into memories, which should long be buried, spurring me into action. If it’s him, I won’t have much time. Grabbing what I can, I pay little attention to which volumes I’m snatching, only taking what my arms can carry. After I’ve made it safely away, I’ll sift through my treasures.
In truth, every book here has meaning. It doesn’t matter which I rescue right now; I’ll walk away happy. Plucking books from all over the office to not draw attention to large swaths of blank spaces, I blindly take and stack until an odd sight catches my attention.
There, behind several short books, is a hidden pipe. I blink at it for several precious moments before setting my burden down. With a reverence I usually save for church or babies, I pick it up and clutch it to my chest. Though I do not recall Father using this one, it still smells of his special blend of tobacco.
Tears finally drip from my eyes as I inhale the memories, letting them flood my brain. All the other pipes are gone. Asher claimed they’d fetch a great price and would ease the financial burden bequeathed to us. He didn’t even allow me one last look or touch. I simply walked into the study and they were gone.
Smatterings of conversations, interspersed with Asher’s abrasive timber, float up the stairs, spiking my body with a flood of adrenaline. With the fine quality of this pipe, there is no doubt in my mind he would snatch it from me and take it to market. I can’t let that happen.
I’ve already given up so much—all my nice clothes, my jewelry, and now my lady’s maid. I can’t let him have this too. Gaze darting about the room, my stomach clenches as my mind whirrs into action. I cannot stuff it into my pocket and risk Asher seeing, or worse, patting me down like some common criminal when he finds me in the study.
That leaves down the front. He’s at least enough of a gentleman not to accost me in an unseemly way. He won’t check there, much less look at that area. That is, unless I’ve sorely mistaken his abrasiveness as something romantic hidden underneath—a mask to hide his true feelings?
Shaking my head, I drive out the ideas placed there by imbibing a gothic novel or two. Such scandalous thoughts have no place here. Taking the stem of the pipe, I wiggle it behind the fabric, sliding it between my breasts with the stummel, the place where the tobacco rests, setting against the swell.
If only my breasts were bigger, then the curves would hug against the wood, keeping it firmly in place. Staring down at the flat expanse, I can’t help but mourn my lack of a figure. As an omega, I thought I should be curvier. At least, that’s how the modiste made it sound.
Thankfully, it’s never been an issue before, seeing as Father never pushed me toward the marriage mart where such things could determine just how successful a coming out would be. But now I’m of age, and no doubt nearing my first heat, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice.
We had no plans in place for that dreadful day, and I sure as bollocks didn’t crave the idea of an Alpha helping me through this female affliction, whatever it is. If it were an Alpha who was kind and attentive like Father, maybe. But from what I’ve seen of Asher, I want nothing to do with the lot of them. I must conduct more research to figure out how to get myself through it without any aid.
But then, again, what information is to be found? I know nothing about this monumental time in an omega’s life. Whenever I asked Father, he’d simply turn red and change the subject, leading me to believe it has something to do with a more private affair. None of the books I’ve read have gone into detail. They simply mention this coming-of-age rite and move on.
Sliding my hands back down my front, I push air through my lips to fluff up the hair surrounding my face. Perhaps they were wrong and I’m not an omega after all? Classic omegas all seem to be buxom beauties, their curves an allure of all who see them.
Is it breasts that make an omega? Surely not. But then, the only thing about me that even hints at my dynamic is my short stature and slight frame. From what I’ve read on genetics, it could be simply a trait and not an exact indicator.
If only my mother were still here. Perhaps she’d be willing to impart her knowledge to me. She could probably tell me if I was truly an omega and not just a small beta. But I can still dream of being normal with nothing special to entice the massive brutes.
It stirs an itch in me, one that demands I pour myself back into the books, consequences be damned. And, as much as I want to travel down those paths, to once more pick up another book to do research, I cannot allow myself. In truth, I’ve indulged these idle thoughts for long enough.
Maybe later, when I’m alone, I can revisit them. As it is, time is far too limited, and my chance of discovery grows with every passing second. Besides, I don’t want to give Asher the satisfaction of seeing me so discombobulated.
Glancing back down, I shift the pipe again, praying it will stay secure. Instead of an ample bosom, I’ll have to put faith in God and in my chemise that this precious cargo won’t jostle loose. The moment I wedge it down as best as I can, I grab the books and race toward the door, holding them in front as not only a barrier but also a buttress. I press the pipe so deeply into my skin I fear I will wear the grooves for several minutes after.
Maybe luck will be on my side today. Maybe I can get out of this unscathed. My hand poised over the knob, I go to turn it, to open the door and flee to freedom; however, all hopes of a clean getaway are dashed the minute the entryway slams open, nearly knocking into me. Asher strides in his blue eyes, so like mine, so like my father’s, flashing in his anger.
“I believe I made it quite clear you were not to enter my study when I was not present.”
