The silence around him was not the absence of noise but the same cloak that had enveloped him for as many years as he could remember. It was heavy, still, and breathless. The candles had died completely and the cold hearth left the chamber in a shadow of its true nature. Brand sat awake, his back against the headboard, his chest naked, and the covers gathered loosely around his waist. He remained like so until the morning light graced the sky, until the rats scurried back to their holes.
From the moment sleep departed, he had sat, staring at perfect nothingness. The dim line where the wall encountered the ceiling was uninteresting. The dark-coloured draperies were boring. The room itself was unwanted. Hours passed, yet he did not mark them. When an easy draft blew into the room, he was not concerned.
The cold walls and dark chambers would set the heart of another man in disarray, but the man who sat in it barely felt it. His confused, empty mind demanded all his feelings. As his foreman suspected, his nights were never haunted by dreams, nor plagued by nightmares, no. They simply refuse to completely envelope him in the arms of rest, keeping his mind still and oppressed. No place gave sweet rest, nor could any account to decent hours of slumber. Not The Rescuer, not Mainecroft Castle, not Mainecroft Hall.
He was a man of abundant wealth, one exalted and dignified, yet no stranger to powerlessness.
A knock distracted him from his lost lane, pulling him harshly from the shadows. Brand's eyes shifted. He blinked and blinked again, regaining a nuance of his authority. Of himself.
Realising that the morning sun had since brightened the sky, he quickly grabbed the shirt by the pillows and hurried it over his bare, scarred chest.
"Come." He called with a hoarse voice. His fingers hastened to fasten the buttons.
No answer.
A moment later, another knock came.
Coughing lightly, he called again. "Come!"
This time, he was heard. The door slowly creaked open and Gerard, his butler, slipped in.
"Good morning, Your Highness." The stout man bowed low, revealing the thinning patch of his hair. Then, "Your steward has arrived. And Mr. Barry Jefferson from the administrative office has come calling." He informed.
Brand exhaled, nodding to acknowledge the information. Carefully, he tilted his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. Mr. Jefferson was a timely man, he noted. The man had managed the records and enrolment of his business venture for years, never failing to keep to the timely renewal and accountability. He quite embodied all the traits one could ever ask for in all who worked with them. Perhaps, he could pilfer from the administrative office, and assign him to duties in his employ, managing the accounts with his steward.
"My Lord?" Gerard called quietly.
With a jolt, Brand's eyes flew open. He ran his hand through his long mass and exhaled loudly. Then carefully tapping his head against the board, he asked. "Is there more?"
"Yes, sir." Gerard said, but was hesitant to share.
"If you would rather withhold the knowledge, then best be on your way. I believe you to be occupied."
"Forgive me." He gestured towards the doorway. "There is… um… A maid, Lilith, she is called." He paused. "She arrived last night from_ from Whitmore_ Whitmore House."
Complete clarity came. Brand sat up, bringing his eyes from his butler to the figure which hesitantly slipped in as if summoned by her own introduction. She was small, with dark hair held neatly at the back of her head and a plain gown that proved her status. She kept her hands caught together in front of her and her head bowed.
Brand grimaced, raking his hair behind his left ear. Was this Lady Wilmot's latest ploy? The unnecessary relaying of wealthy and courteous ladies had lost their appeal? Was she weary of subtly sending lusty women and maids of loose conduct to Mainecroft Hall that she would demand an introduction? He turned to his butler, refusing to behold the girl a moment more. If he had noticed her, it was only as one might notice an upholstery, or a lit candle. In passing, and without care.
"And what are her duties?" He inquired, becoming somewhat angry at Gerard. How dare he bring a stranger into his bedchambers?
Confusion filled Gerard's countenance. He looked between Brand and the maid. "I_I am… I am quite unsure, sir." He stammered. When Brand's left eyebrow rose, the man withdrew. "Shall I send her to the kitchen then?"
At least he was sensible, Brand thought. He waved dismissively. "Do as you will. It matters little." It mattered nothing.
With a curt nod of his head, Gerard commanded the maid away. She bowed and left, swaying her hips as forcefully as she could. Irritated, Brand's teeth rubbed roughly against each other.
"Are you tired of your employment here, Gerard?" His words were easy. Their implication was not.
Fear climbed the other man's face. "Forgive me, sir, but Lady Wilmot had, in the letter sent along, commanded that she be introduced to you in your bedchamber."
"Perhaps you should go work for Lady Wilmot." He threatened.
Gerard bowed quickly and fully. "I would never again conceive such disrespect, Your Highness. I had only hoped to obey Her Ladyship." He stood up straight, clasping his hands behind him. "She shall be remanded to kitchen duties until her days are complete here, away from your sight."
Brand pulled himself away from the headboard. With an easy swing, he freed his legs from the confines of the covers, setting his bare feet on the cold floor. "Have you sent the letter?"
"Yes sir. I had it delivered at the first light of day as you wanted. Mr. O'Neill received it and quickly returned the note." A slight cough. "It is at the top of your table in your study."
Brand nodded. "Very well. Go have my bath prepared. And had my callers wait in the Sapphire Room."
"Yes, sir." Gerard bowed again and hurried away, probably grateful to have been spared the consequences of his foolishness. How much of Lady Wilmot's command had the man obeyed in the months he was away? Who else had dared enter his private space on her words? And how great were the number of these 'maids' that now roamed the grounds of Mainecroft Hall in compliance to her wishes?
He sighed. Lady Wilmot had for certain lost her mind. She had tired of sending notes, now she would threaten the men in his employ to see her selfish gain achieved? Bringing them under the guise of servitude, as though he could be so convinced. Madness!
He did not care for the social status of the women set before his eyes, nor the might of their bosom. It certainly did not matter to him what colour of hair sat on their head, nor their height in stance. He simply did not care about them. Not as companions and surely not as mistresses. He would do well to set Lady Wilmot straight when he would call on her.
A quiet knock and the door opened again. This time, it was Mary, his housekeeper.
"Your Highness, the maids have prepared your bath water."