London, October 1884

Things were much worse than Henry had imagined.

When he arrived at Westhill Manor in Windsor, it was nearly time for the evening repast, and thick darkness surrounded the vast estate, save for the entrance illuminated by grand torches. A candle burned in every window of the main wing in honour of the late duke; long black buntings hung from the windowsills above the entrance, signifying the family's recent loss and mourning.

Henry reached into his greatcoat and produced a flat glass flask. Uncorking it, he took a hearty sip before stepping toward the grand manor that had housed his family for generations. He was careful to maintain his composure, aware that he needed to manage his intoxication and not let it foolishly drop under the norm required to endure the ordeal awaiting him inside. However, he also knew that so far he had been drinking on an empty stomach.

It seemed he was already expected; the majordomo opened the doors before Henry had even ascended the steps to the threshold.

"Allow me, Your Grace," said the valet, approaching with outstretched hands to take his greatcoat and hat.

Henry had to summon all his self-control to refrain from rebuking the man for presuming his title. The man is merely fulfilling his duties, behaving as supposed to and adhering to long-standing tradition established for centuries, he reminded himself. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he cleared his throat.

"Where is my brother?"

His voice, tense and unrecognisable, betrayed his inner turmoil.

"In the drawing room, Your Grace."

Henry nodded and, after a brief hesitation, began his walk towards the designated room. The closer he came, the more his legs seemed inclined to buckle, to prevent him from facing the body and accepting the inevitable. Everyone had long anticipated this moment in Andrew's life, him included, yet it still felt surreal, impossible.

Utterly aghast.

The hum in his ears returned, accompanied by the firmer thuds of his heart, resonating within his temples.

Just before he could see more of his brother than the dark, polished boots as the door to the drawing room was being opened by the servant, Henry felt a touch on his shoulder.

"Halt, close the door," came the soft, yet firm voice.

Henry turned to his left, towards the source of the voice, and met the gaze of his uncle, Lord Giles Clarke, his father's younger brother.

"Henry, my boy," the elder man addressed him, "it is indeed a very sorrowful day for us all."

His eyes were swollen and red, a testament to his grief. Despite everything, it was clear that uncle Giles genuinely mourned his nephew.

"Before you behold our Andrew, there is something you must know," his uncle continued, sighing heavily.

"He took his own life, didn't he?" Henry inquired softly, barely audible.

It seemed the second time had been the final one, the final charm in the grand tapestry of life led by one troubled gentleman named Andrew Clarke. And mayhap led was an unfit word that ought to be replaced by suffered.

Giles nodded. "It is more about how he did it, though."

The uncle then led Henry aside, away from the inquisitive ears of the servants, his hand still resting upon his nephew's arm.

"You see, Henry... his body was retrieved from the Thames early this morning when a passerby noticed his white shirt amidst the darkness. If it hadn't been caught by a fallen tree... we might never have known his fate; leaving us to guess what happened to him," Giles sighed and continued, "The family's official account is that he went to the Thames for his usual morning walk and suffered an unfortunate fall into its swift waters."

"How do we know... how can we be so certain that isn't what truly happened to him?" Henry inquired, though he knew it was only his wishful thinking.

"He wrote farewell letters to everyone in the family. There's one for you, too."

Certainly, Andrew left some letters behind. He would not leave any doubt that his suicide was premeditated. When he attempted to take his own life for the first time, he also left handwritten notes. However, once he was saved, Henry threw all the notes into the flames of the hearth without ever telling anyone.

He was so certain then, although naively, that there would not be another attempt on Andrew's part, but alas...

"I wanted to warn you that the sight of him... is not a pleasant one, to put it mildly," his uncle took a long breath. "Shall we?"

His nephew nodded, and together they approached the entrance to the drawing room once more. The servant opened the door for them, Henry being the first to step towards the display of his deceased brother.

But after glancing at Andrew's once quite handsome face, Henry felt faint and unsteady on his feet. His brother's body was bloated from laying in water for hours, making it nearly impossible to dress him in funeral attire. The face remained visible, though, now coloured with various shades of blue, green, and purple. Henry found it impossible to believe that this barely recognisable creature had once been his brother.

Of all the possible ways to meet his end, to embrace his long-awaited and desired destination, Andrew had chosen the most horrific and painful: death by drowning.

What were his final ruminations, as the dark, turbid waters engulfed his breath?, Henry pondered silently.

Did he ever consider the repercussions on Henry, who faithfully dispatched missives from his journeys along with tokens, hoping they might rekindle Andrew's zest for life?

Or was he truly so self-centred as to act now, when they had both ventured so far in life, merely to chasten Henry for his absence during Andrew's prolonged anguish?

Henry took a cautious step backwards, nearly stumbling, though he swiftly regained his composure. Two pairs of hands gently grasped his arms to steady him, their voices seeming to echo from a great distance.

Henry, are you quite well?

Son, is everything in order?

Henry? Henry!

His mind, however, whisked him into recollection of a particular afternoon by a lake near a cottage they frequented in their youth.

„What do you hesitate for? Leap!" encouraged Andrew from the water, as Henry stood on the wooden pier that stretched far into the lake.

„I-I dare not, Andrew! I fear my swimming skills are weak," the younger Henry lamented.

„Milksop!" exclaimed his older brother and grimaced. He then drew a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface.

Henry frowned, yet even the taunt of being labelled a wimp failed to dissuade him from contemplating a leap into the murky depths. Instead, he held steadfast, anxiously awaiting Andrew's emergence.

But alas, his brother did not surface. With each passing moment, Henry's concern for Andrew's safety grew more pronounced.

"Andrew?" he called out, his voice laced with worry. "Andrew! This jest has gone far enough!"

In that moment, a forceful shove on Henry's back sent him plunging into the cold embrace of the water. He was swiftly engulfed, the liquid penetrating his from every orifice: his mouth, throat, and nose. The dread took reign over his senses, overwhelming reason itself, and as he gazed upwards, the light seemed to stray further and further away from him despite feeling it being so, so close to the surface...

Henry firmly believed he would have perished that day had his indomitable will to survive not triumphed over the firm clutches of a dire predicament. When he at last emerged, his vision was obscured by fits of coughing that cleared his lungs of water. After the ordeal subsided, he wiped away tears to behold Andrew seated on the pier, idly tapping the water's surface with his feet.

"Water is freedom," Andrew remarked as Henry swam closer to him.

Still gripped by both fear and relief, he found himself unable to reprimand his elder brother, who had nearly been the cause of his demise. No one ever gleaned the truth of that fateful day, as he vowed never to disclose it to another living soul.

A resounding slap across his cheek shattered his reverie abruptly, snapping him back to the present moment.

„Oh, release me, cocksuckers," he exclaimed, shaking off his cousins.

Henry swiftly crossed the room to the far end where the grand piano stood, and there he paused, his hands resting upon its polished mahogany surface. He drew several deep breaths, endeavouring to compose himself.

"Do not touch me," he whispered sharply to Martin Clarke, his cousin and the eldest son of Giles and Anne, who had ventured near with fraternal concern, yet remained respectfully at bay.

After a prolonged moment, a severe feminine voice belonging to a woman who had observed him since his arrival spoke up. "Henry, where are your manners? Will you not offer a proper greeting to me?"

He felt a chill pierce his spine like an icy dagger. Immediately, he turned and walked towards the elderly lady seated on the settee. Bending down, he kissed her on both cheeks, adhering to their familial traditions, and said softly, "My dear mother, please accept my deepest sympathies for the loss of your heir, my beloved brother. My heart is heavy with sorrow, and words fail to express my grief."

The dowager duchess nodded, her lips pressed in a thin line, visibly satisfied with her son's improved demeanour. She then subtly inclined her chin to indicate behind Henry's back. As he turned, he caught sight of Lady Caroline Clarke, his deceased brother's widow, gazing thoughtfully at the marble floor as if lost in deep reflection. She met his gaze only when he took her hand, bowing to press a kiss upon it.

"Please accept my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your husband, my dear sister-in-law. May the Almighty grant him eternal peace," he murmured.

Caro remained impassive in response to his words, a demeanour that Henry paid little heed to as he adjusted his posture and surveyed his surroundings. The entire immediate family had assembled: Lord Giles Clarke, accompanied by Lady Anne Clarke and their six children, each with their respective spouses.

The younger members of the extended family were likely sequestered in their chambers or nurseries, depending on their years. While it might have raised eyebrows that the late duke had sired no progeny of his own, Henry attributed this circumstance largely to his health. Andrew had been plagued by more afflictions of the mind than there were fingers on two hands, and his failed suicide attempt was followed by a sojourn at the famed Bedlam asylum, albeit under an assumed name.

Now all the countenances of his relatives were fixed upon his person, causing him to tremble despite him being accustomed to public scrutiny.

"What is it you want?! Why do you regard me as though I have sprouted a second head upon my shoulders?" Henry inquired prickly.

Giles cleared his throat. "You are aware, Henry, that circumstances have altered with dear Andrew's passing. The family is in need of your words of affirmation and acceptance regarding your newfound position."

Henry sneered and gestured disdainfully towards his brother's lifeless body, still laid out for all to see. "Death to the duke, long live the duke?" he proclaimed, pointing towards himself.

"Cease with such vulgar displays, Henry," his mother interjected sharply. "It is evident to all that you are inebriated."

Henry turned to face his mother, his expression a mix of defiance and despair. "Aye?! And what did you expect of me, mother? That I should rejoice in this unforeseen twist of fate?! That I ever desired to inherit the dukedom? My life, as I knew it, has shattered before me, for fuck's sake! All due to those whose duty it was to keep him alive and ensure the succession!"

The censure implied upon her character was unbearable for Caro, who rose abruptly from her seat. „You bloody prick, you," she exclaimed, „how dare you malign those who bore the sight of your brother for years, witnessed his deteriorating health whilst you were gallivanting on your fucking travels!"

His finger punctuated the air, his nostrils flaring with contempt. „I've always been the one to uphold the esteemed reputation of our family in the public eye, so that no one would question Andrew's peculiar comportment and his reclusive lifestyle, you goddamned bitch! Had you possessed a fraction of the wit you squander in your vitriol coming out your mouth, you would provide him with heirs!"

Giles interposed between the disputing pair, his hands raised in an attempt to quell the rising tension, yet his efforts proved futile.

"My dear brother-in-law appears to disregard the fact that I have suffered the loss of my child," she retorted, her countenance flushing crimson, her lips trembling with a sense of perceived injustice and offence.

"You made but one attempt! One! You could have laid with any other man were my brother unwilling to insert his cock in you, for I daresay he would scarcely have minded, and that's on you!" Henry shouted.

"I respected him!" Caro shrieked. „How could I endure the reflection of my countenance in the mirror if I were to deceive and bear a child from such a sinful deed?! Am I nought but a tenpenny whore in your eyes?!"

"Fuck your respect!" he roared. "See where it has led us today! You're at most an absolute dimwit to me!"

"Enough from both of you!" thundered the voice of Regina Clarke, effectively halting the quarrelling pair and commanding the attention of all present.

"Henry," she addressed her son with a gravity in her gaze, "for better or worse, you're now the Duke of Grantchester, and it is your duty to uphold the dignity of your new title."

She rose from the settee and approached her son with a commanding presence, a proud and statuesque woman who exuded authority.

"I never imagined I would live to see the day when I could honestly say I am relieved it is you, Henry. I am grateful that the title now rests upon your shoulders as your brother sleeps with the fish he desired for so long."

Fuck, he almost forgot how cynical and uncompromising his mother could be.

His mother continued, "Do not behave as a rogue now - we both know you will conform as you have been brought up to do. Meaning, you will promptly seek a suitable bride to marry, and commence siring children as your foremost duty, for you are no longer the youngest."

Henry curled his lip disdainfully. "I should wed my late brother's widow to demonstrate the proper way of conducting affairs. She ought to beg me to stop breeding her akin to a mare after our seventh progeny."

"Absolutely not," his mother objected firmly. "Caroline is past her prime for childbearing."

Caroline's countenance soured at this remark. "I am but six-and-thirty," she retorted defensively.

"And in a year's time, you shall be seven-and-thirty, a lamentable age indeed. Your opportunity has long since fled with Andrew. Moreover," Regina turned her gaze squarely upon Caroline, "should you dare to display any further insolence toward the duke, I shall see to it that you are relocated from this estate."

Caroline huffed indignantly and exited the room with a muttered, "Fuckers!"

"Will cousin Victoria be attending the funeral?" Giles interjected, attempting to diffuse the palpable tension in the room.

"Her Majesty, the Queen shall grace the funeral with her presence, yet she conveyed her desire to abstain from viewing the departed's remains," she responded with solemnity.

"Quite understandable," Giles remarked, as he joined Henry at the table, where a decanter of scotch awaited them.

His nephew was about to sip from the glass he poured himself, not sparing a glance anywhere but the table he was leaning onto.

"Pray, Henry, I beseech you to refrain from imbibing in the presence of Her Majesty during this solemn occasion," Giles whispered urgently. "It would cast a most unfavourable shadow upon your reputation should she chance upon you inebriated at Andrew's funeral. Theirs was a bond of utmost loyalty and respect."

Henry nodded gravely, then lifted the entire crystal decanter of fine scotch under his arm as he decided to retire to his former quarters, fully aware that Giles was shaking his head in disapproval upon seeing his demeanour.

The hounds fell silent and remained so throughout the night, save for Henry who retched the bile from his stomach into a chamberpot after indulging himself for the remainder of the evening.