"I did not even recognise her. The birth had been hard, but it was more than that. She was lifeless. Like a ghost. She barely ate, she would not speak. And the strain had taken its toll on my parents too. My father's heart gave out completely not long afterwards. Daphne did not even attend the funeral."
He paused and swallowed convulsively. The crackle of a log settling was the only sound. She wanted desperately to reach out to him but she held herself still, wanting him to finish, sensing he needed to talk about it.
"Anyway, years passed. I went away again and worked like a dog. I admit now that I was avoiding my responsibilities. I did not know how to deal with Daphne's sickness and my mother's grief." He shook his head, his eyes bleaker than she'd ever seen them.
"I stayed away until I got the letter."
He stopped again, his voice having cracked on the last word. Mariah was filled with dread. She wanted to tell him to stop, that she did not need to hear anymore. But something told her that he needed to speak it aloud.
"When Charlotte, my niece, was three years old, Daphne took herself into the woods surrounding our estate and — and shot herself. She was not yet even twenty."
"Oh, Brandon," Mariah knew she shouldn't have spoken his Christian name, but she didn't care about such mundane things right now, so consumed was she by pity. She raised an arm and placed it on his, feeling how tense his muscles were beneath his shirt sleeve.
"I wasn't there. If — if I'd been there I could have stopped her. If I'd moved her away sooner, brought her here where nobody could know, I could have saved her." He grimaced at the glass in his hand then slammed it forcefully onto the side table. "I failed her, and now she's dead. My niece is without a mother, my own mother has been utterly destroyed by it, and all they have now is me, a man who has made more money than he can spend in his lifetime and cannot do right by them. I was a coward, and they have all suffered for it." He pulled away from her sympathetic touch and leapt to his feet.
Mariah was horrified by the sadness of his tale. She was horrified that he should blame himself so much.
She jumped up and walked towards him.
"Brandon, no. No! You cannot blame yourself. I won't let you."
His face was an emotionless mask, devoid of all feeling. She could tell he was barely listening but she pressed on.
"Please, hear me. Your sister, your poor sweet sister, she became sick, Brandon. So sick that she could not bear it any longer. It would not have mattered had you been there. She had already stopped living. It was not your fault. You are not to blame."
Still he did not turn to her, still he did not react. He was a statue. His grief was no longer showing on his face but she knew he felt it keenly from the set of his jaw, the stiffness in his spine.
In desperation she grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face her. "Listen to me," she practically shouted. "You cannot help your sister now, but you can be the man you need to be for your family. For your mother and for Charlotte."
"How?" he asked brokenly. "How can I ever make it right?"
"By being happy," she said firmly. "By creating a happy home for them. By being proud of your niece, not ashamed. The sins of her father and the mistakes of her mother are not hers. Give her a loving home. Be the father she needs. Show your mother that she still has a child to live for."
"I haven't lived in a year. I stopped living the day she did."
"A year?"
"It was last Christmas. Christmas day." he admitted softly. "That is why I was so desperate for this place to be readied. I do not think my mother can bear to stay where she is. And I don't want Charlotte to be there, where her mother died, for any longer than she needs to be."
Hot tears streamed down Mariah's face. In that moment she knew she was, without reason or sense, falling desperately in love with this man. Even though only days had passed. She couldn't explain it. It was illogical and foolish, but it was true. She was falling hard and she wanted so badly to help him.
"Brandon, a big library, a new house. It's wonderful, but it isn't enough. They need you. Not things. And the only way to make them happy is for you to be happy. And to be happy you must forgive yourself. You must." In her desperation for him to listen, she grabbed at the lapels of his jacket, shaking him as she spoke.
Bit by bit, his eyes focused on her. They'd been somewhere else entirely up until that point. He'd been looking at the past he couldn't escape, not her. But he was looking at her now.
Slowly, tenderly, he lifted a hand and wiped the tears from her face.
"You're crying," he said softly. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
Mariah dashed the tears away impatiently. "It doesn't matter" she said, dismissing their importance.
"Yes, it does," he argued. "Probably more than it should. I don't like seeing you cry." He sounded disconcerted by the fact.
"Brandon, please listen. Please—"
"It's late," he interrupted, suddenly sounding exhausted and old beyond his years. "Go to bed, Mariah."