The thought brought gathering dark clouds of depression scudding through Finn’s mind. Newlyweds. Bah! Even in this Drew had won. “Perhaps,” was his noncommittal response. Unable to remain stationary, he wheeled himself across the floor to stare out the window at the Mayfair streets below. He ignored how nice the summer breeze felt on his face, for he wasn’t of a mind to look for the good in the situation just now. All the people down there who went about their daily lives without care or consequence while he sat here, a prisoner in a make-believe tower, growing into more of a grumpy ghoul, deformed and trapped, with each day that passed.
The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him. Perhaps he’d spent entirely too much time reading fairy stories and ancient tales from around the world. It had become a habit of sorts during his recuperation period, and recently he’d taken it into his head that he might like to pen a story of his own along those lines, featuring a hero of his ilk, and not in the usual style.
For everyone should be able to read about the hero of a storybook who overcame his struggles. Except… I’ve not done that for myself anyway.
“Perhaps I should remove to the Brighton townhouse.”
To think. To hide. To let the memories and depression have at him. Or, if he didn’t find himself lost to the nightmares, he might be able to concentrate on writing the meat of his story, and perhaps send out inquiries to publishers. Imagine seeing himself as a published author and returning to London with the knowledge that something he’d plucked from his mind would soon be in book form, displayed in shop windows. It was a bit of good he could put into the world to counter some of the bad.
His mother made a sound of displeasure in her throat. “I’d like you to stay here with me. I’ve barely spent time with you since you’ve been home.”
Was that a criticism couched in love? For he had kept to his rooms much of the time, especially after his last row with Drew. Depression had got hold of him and it had taken a few days and talking with Rodgers, his valet, to beat it back enough that he could function. The days where he didn’t wish to remove from bed—couldn’t really—were the worst, for then he’d lie there and wonder how the family would function if he weren’t there amidst them. It was enough to chill his blood. “I don’t belong in London, Mother.”
I don’t belong bloody anywhere.
“Nonsense.” Her tinkling laughter sounded a tad forced. Perhaps they were all on edge and had been since his father had died over two years ago, a month before Finn’s own injury. “The Season hasn’t started so Town isn’t crowded. It’s a good time to ease you back into society.” The tones of her voice had lightened. “We have a rout to attend tomorrow evening at Viscount Nattingly’s home. You’ll look so handsome.”
His stomach lurched. Finn tamped on the urge to dry heave at the thought of wheeling himself into a society event and feeling the weight of all those stares. “Except for my chair. Can’t disguise that with fancy clothes or a well-knotted cravat or hair tamed with pomade.” Now, he drew the line at that particular cosmetic.
“Oh, hush.” A rustle of fabric indicated that she’d stood. Seconds later, she came abreast of him. “You need to circulate now that you’re home, and you need people—life—around you. I don’t like how you sequester yourself away from everything.”
“I’ve had my fill of people, thank you.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You need to marry.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “As if that will happen. I can’t even take a mistress, for that part of me doesn’t exactly… perform.” His bark of laughter was a mangled sound. No, he was worse than useless if his prick didn’t work. Visual stimulation or thinking about erotic things didn’t affect his member. At times he had what was called a reflex erection if fabric moved directly over his penis or if he tried to self-stimulate the shaft, but the hardness didn’t last long enough. Alternately, a handful of times he’d woken in the middle of the night to a spontaneous erection, but without any integrity, it had soon faded. No chance to shoot his wad by his own hand, and definitely no hope of being able to pleasure a woman, let alone impregnate her.
“You won’t marry for the physical sake, of course,” his mother responded breezily as if it didn’t matter to her that he’d never again find release nor pleasure a woman. “For the friendship. Life is better with someone you love and who supports your endeavors. You can overcome many obstacles with that.”
“Oh, please. I could never sentence a woman to a marriage that didn’t contain the promise—or hope—of being physical. To say nothing about having children. That dream has been quite dashed.” Finn tossed his correspondence to the floor. Once upon a time he had wished for children, in the early years of his military career. But as time and violence and killing had dragged on, he’d changed his mind. In no way did he want to bring offspring into such a deadly and cold world. Now he didn’t need to worry about it. “All of it is out of my purview, so if you’ll excuse me? I’d rather like to sit in the garden for some air and to think. If you’ll ring for a footman or even Rodgers?”
At least alone he could scribble in his notebook in peace. And dream impossible things for his characters, for they had more of a chance at meeting them than he did.
For the foreseeable future, he would brood and attempt to lose himself in his writing. And if the nightmares or depression didn’t slay him, then he would see about doing… something with the rest of his life.