***
After dismissing his steward, from his home and his employ, and ordering Gerard to find another, Brand had sat at his table since after breakfast, wrestling with his accounts, while silently cussing his steward–well, former steward–at every discrepancy. He frowned at the disparaging figures on the parchment in his hand and cussed again. The man's incompetence was a continuing source of frustration.
He was in high need of water, but Gerard had been sent out to search for a replacement for the incompetent man, and he had yet to return. How could he not, when he had been threatened of the near likelihood of his management of the accounts if he returned without a possible steward? Brand smiled to himself amidst his anger.
He knew he could never make true his threat, but Gerard did not. Which was why the man was about town now, searching for a capable replacement, just as he had wanted. Discovering that he cared more for Gerard's horror of managing his accounts than the actual finding of a proper steward, Brand realised he had yet not forgiven the misconduct of that morning.
How dare he bring a stranger to his private quarters, disturbing his already tumultuous mind?
A soft breeze drifted in through the open windows, slightly ruffling his hair and troubling the parchments on his desk. He ignored it. Among the papers was Stephen's report on The Rescuer, the recently docked cargo ship: Two Flying Doves, and Mr. Jefferson's relaying of the accounts of all his ships, and the maintenance of the affairs of the First Light Seahorse Fleet.
Setting the report aside, Brand turned to assess his ships' value and accumulated profits, noting which ships required repairs, and debating if he should sign off on the necessary expenses himself or leave the task for the new steward, assuming one was found. Pushing procrastination aside, he signed off on them.
A silent knock landed on the door. "Enter." He called, without caring who it was.
The door opened and soon he heard approaching steps. They drew nigh the desk slowly and stood before him. "Your Highness." It was Mary.
"I do not need these refreshments, Mary," he told her flatly, certain it was the reason she had come. He was right.
"Yes, sir." Mary bowed slightly and retrieved the tray she had been about to set down. Then, "The new maid has been assigned her quarters and her duties." She informed, "You shall have no reason to behold her until she is sent back to Whitmore House."
He nodded dismissively and waved her off. She did not need to report such trivialities, but he knew how steadfast she could be in the management of her duties. If she had any skill in the matters of accounts, he would have appointed her as his steward without hesitation, gender be damned. Her dedication and attention to detail were unparalleled—a perfect coadunation that would have solved many of his current headaches.
"Has Gerard returned?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Hmm." Another nod. "I am in particular need of water, rather than your refreshments, Mary."
"I shall bring a glass in promptly, Your Highness."
Retreating footfalls, a closing door, and soon, he was alone again. He lingered a moment on Mr. Jefferson's statement, before signing off on it.
Switching the parchments, he paused and blinked. Mr. Jefferson truly was knowledgeable of the affairs of accounts and he was quite diligent. Perhaps, he thought, he should indeed set his sight on him. The man certainly held more promise than the fool who had graciously enjoyed payment for the duties he had not done. How dare he declare that he was uncertain how to manage in the absence of the fortune owner. Was it not the reason he had been employed?
Minutes after, Mary slid into the room, served his water and left as silently as he would have wanted.
Brand held the cool glass against his lips, savouring the easy liquid before allowing it passage to his stomach. A perfect coolness settled within and he enjoyed it as his gaze easily darted from the parchments to the open windows, and as though on command, he rose from behind the desk and walked to them. His study sat above the clear area, providing a wide range of sight.
The rays of the sun were perfectly spread over the green fields and towering trees, creating a bright hue that he was certain he would have appreciated better if he were at sea. The golden lights dancing over the blue waves was a sight he never tired of. The birds were about their duties now, of flight and collecting of nuts and twigs, while the tree branches waved in response to the wind.
Below, two of the men in his employ stood by a hedge deep in conversation, laughing and seemingly enjoying themselves, and afar off, a mighty band were busy out on the fields, engrossed in whatever their duties demanded of them for that day. He turned away.
Brand felt nothing. He was neither curious of the conversation that delighted the men, nor the strain of the workers, no. Nothing interested him. Not the ton, not the joys of his authority. Even if the sky were to split open and pour torrents of rain over the land, flooding everywhere, he doubted he would be moved.
His heart had never, since his rescue, lost a single beat.
Returning from the window, he replaced himself behind his desk, and with a scowl, eyed the ledgers and records cursing the lazy man again. So much had been left unattended to. There were several letters, invitations to various balls and soirées, all of which he had no intent of attending. Unless they were hosted by the king, or perhaps Carlisle or Ramsay, such gatherings held no appeal for him. Why had the fool not sent a polite refusal? He pushed the parchments aside and let out a weary sigh.
The affairs of society, soirées and idle talks—everything of worth to the ton—mattered little to him. Except for the dark waters of the seas, or the vast emptiness of the sky, even nature held little interest for him as well.
He exhaled deeply, downing a careful portion of his water. Perhaps his brother held little interest to him. His brother and Lady Gwen. Was that why he enjoyed watching them in unguarded moments? Did they hold a miniature interest because they were his family? Or because they would offer no judgment of his particular love for uncertainty, and for the nuance of danger? He would admit he cared for uncertainty, for why else would he enjoy the life of a privateer over one as a privileged prince?
Or maybe they interested him because they cared not that he was a coward, a weakling, who was traipsing around the world searching for an escape for the prison he was in, the prison no one must come to knowledge about. He ran his hand through his hair, setting the glass aside.
Eight years, Brand thought. Eight years.
It was a little over eight years now since he was rescued from the flaming wreck of the pirate ship, yet he saw it as if he was there still. Not with the fear that had owned him that day, but with the lingering bitterness of vengeance. Even after so long, the smell of smoke still haunted his mind; he could still feel the icy shock of seawater on his skin, the gritty sand beneath him on the shore, and the painless loss of his eye, well, until lucidity had returned.
Fatigue and frustration mingled. Absent-mindedly, he scratched his dead eye. He wanted nothing more than to bury that night from memory forever, but the reminder hung about him like a grave sin that could never be erased. Every scar on his body rekindled his damned memories, forcing his past upon him again and again, and he hated that. He did not want them, not now, not ever!
But he could not escape it, so he would live in it. He thought of the painting of the burning ship in his cabin, a grand reminder of the night that would never…
A knock stole him from his torment.