Nearing thirty, a man alone might find solace in solitude, but for a young lady, the weight of it could press heavy. Marcus had been pondering this since last week when the plodding postman delivered Miss Ashford's letters, six or seven at a time. Not that he disliked her attention, but it stirred an anxious unease within him. His father, a good man but ever the pusher, insisted he pen lengthy replies to each and every one.
It wasn't that Marcus didn't understand Miss Ashford; it was himself he couldn't fathom. Frustration gnawed at him, his quill flung across the room, a low groan escaping his lips as words failed to form on the page.
How long Marcus remained cloistered in his study, none could say. Desperation clawed at him, the relentless drive to be the good son a suffocating weight upon his shoulders. When exactly this role had begun to drag him down was shrouded in the mists of time. Perhaps it was the day he fled his first arranged engagement, or maybe it stretched back further, to the moment his mother breathed her last.
A soft knock at the door startled Marcus from his reverie. "Enter," he called, hastily gathering the scattered papers on his desk.
"Marcus, your father was looking for you," Velor entered the room, his eyes falling upon the quill Marcus had thrown earlier.
"Alright," Marcus said, noticing the worry etched on Velor's face.
"What?" Marcus asked, setting the papers aside. "If you have nothing to say, leave, my lord."
"Why are you calling me 'my lord' instead of my name?" Velor said, walking towards him. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Yes, please leave," Marcus said with a frown. He wasn't ready for an argument or any explanations, and he certainly didn't want to get heated.
"Then, your father is waiting at the dining hall," Velor paused, his gaze lingering on Marcus with a deeply concerned expression. He and Marcus knew each other well enough for Velor to understand that pressing further would only drain Marcus's already frayed energy.
Velor walked out of the room, leaving Marcus with a frustrated sigh. He felt like he might lose control soon, if only he could vent his anger. But this situation didn't warrant such a loss of composure.
He walked out of the room, perhaps for the first time in days. Sleeping, eating, existing within those four walls had taken its toll. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes mirroring the state of his mind. He dragged himself towards the dining hall, hesitating at the entrance. A deep breath, and then he pushed the door open.
His father sat at the table, a fresh meal laid out before him, his face flushed crimson from the bottle of spirits beside his plate. It was a sign, a clear signal that this night would be a difficult one.
"Sit," his father commanded, pointing to the seat beside him. Marcus slowly obeyed.
"Did you manage to send her any letters?" his father inquired as soon as Marcus took his seat.
"I'm trying my best," Marcus replied, avoiding his father's gaze.
"Your best is never the best, my son," his father declared. Ah, this again. Every time alcohol touched his lips, he started this tirade. It had been happening since Marcus was a child, since his mother still graced this world.
"You must do better, Marcus," the older man continued, his voice tinged with a familiar edge of frustration. "Miss Ashford is a fine young lady, and this opportunity for a respectable union is not one to be squandered."
Marcus fidgeted in his seat, the weight of his father's expectations pressing heavily upon him. "I understand, Father, but-"
"No 'buts'!" his father interjected, raising a weathered hand. "You will write to her tomorrow, and you will write with purpose. I will not have my son languishing in this self-imposed seclusion any longer."
That's right, there was no room for him to continue this conversation, as he thought. His father was a different man when alcohol touched his lips - more demanding, less understanding. If Marcus didn't leave right then and there, he knew he would face even greater problems later on.
"Then I shall take my leave if that is all you wish to inform me," Marcus said, looking at his father with a hint of dissatisfaction on his face. It was clear he was truly caught up in the situation he had always hated.
His father's expression darkened, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "Every night before I take my sleep, I am haunted by the memory of your mother," he said, taking another sharp sip from his glass.
"If only she were still here to see the disappointment you've become," he added, the words dripping with disdain.
Marcus felt his jaw tighten at the barb, but he resisted the urge to lash out. Instead, he simply nodded, the muscles in his neck straining with the effort to remain composed.
"I shall take my leave, then," he managed, turning towards the door. As he reached for the handle, his father's voice stopped him once more, the bitterness now tinged with a desperate plea.
"Marcus."
Slowly, Marcus turned back, meeting his father's hollow gaze. In that moment, he saw the weary longing of a man who had lost the woman he loved, and the desperate hope that his son might somehow fill the void. But the bitterness that had crept into his father's heart over the years had hardened those emotions, leaving little room for true understanding.
"Don't you dare turn your back on me," the elder man growled, his knuckles whitening around the glass. "Your mother would be ashamed to see the man you've become."
"I understand that I might not be the grateful son that you wanted," Marcus said as he stood near the entrance, his voice tinged with a rare display of assertiveness. "But please, quit drinking and get some rest."
His father's brow furrowed, the familiar haze of inebriation clouding his judgement. "I know my limit, son," he retorted, taking another defiant sip from his glass. "You'd do well to mind your own business and focus on your duties."
"Father, I understand your concerns," Marcus said, his voice measured and devoid of the earlier spark of defiance. "Securing our family's future has always been my priority, you know this."
The older Bennett's expression darkened, the lingering bitterness etched deeply into his features. "Then why do you hesitate?" he pressed, gesturing accusingly with his glass.
Marcus averted his gaze, the weight of his father's expectations settling heavily upon his shoulders"It is not that I do not see the merits of the match," he replied quietly. "But I..." He paused, struggling to find the right words.
"But what?" his father demanded a sharp edge to his tone. "Spit it out."
Straightening his posture, Marcus met his father's gaze with a renewed sense of resolve, though the effort to do so was evident. "I will do my duty, Father. I will marry Miss Ashford and fulfil my obligations to this family."
His father's expression remained impassive, the barest hint of a sneer playing at the corners of his mouth. "See that you do," he growled. "The Bennetts and the Ashfords, we are long-term companions, and I'll be damned if you're the one to mess it up."
Marcus nodded, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "I understand, Father. I will not let you down."
"See that you don't," he retorted, taking another sip from his glass. "The future of this family rests on your shoulders, and I'll not have you squandering it on your own selfish desires."
The accusation stung, and Marcus felt the familiar weight of guilt and obligation pressing down on him. He had always strived to be the dutiful son, but his father's unrelenting bitterness made the task all the more daunting.
"I will honour the Bennetts and our esteemed Baron friends, Father," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have my word."
His father's only response was a curt nod, the shadows of doubt and disappointment still lingering in his sharp gaze.
"Then leave, I don't want to see your face any longer," his father spat, the words stinging Marcus.
Marcus felt the air leave his lungs, his father's harsh dismissal cutting him deeply. It was his fault, he knew. He had failed to be the son his father wanted - the dutiful heir who would carry on the family legacy without question.
He stood there, frozen, as his father's words echoed in his mind. It was his fault his father was so worried, so burdened by their family's future. If only he could be the rock his father needed, the unwavering strength the Bennetts had always displayed.
But instead, he was a disappointment, a source of anguish for the one whose approval he craved. The realisation ached in his chest, threatening to consume him.
Swallowing hard, Marcus nodded slowly, eyes downcast. "As you wish, Father," he murmured. With a heavy heart, he turned and made for the door, each step feeling like a surrender of his dreams.
His father watched him go, a flicker of regret crossing his weathered features. But the bitterness in his soul held fast, and he let out a weary sigh, draining the last of his drink.
The path back to his study seemed to have grown darker and longer than before. Perhaps it was simply the deepening twilight, the lateness of the hour weighing on him. Or maybe it was the lack of proper sustenance, his body feeling the strain of neglect. Each step felt heavier than usual, an odd sensation considering he'd dealt with his father's bitterness countless times before. Yet, tonight, the weight of it felt almost unbearable.
The door of his study clicked shut behind him, the weight on his shoulders finally crushing him to the floor. A sigh escaped his lips, a sound unlike any he'd uttered before. He slumped to the ground, head in his hands. He wasn't crying, not sobbing, just feeling utterly strange and overwhelmed.
It was all too much.