When he could take his thinking no longer, Percy sat on a footstool and clutched the snifter tightly. The aroma from the tan colored spirits called to him, and at a loss for what else to do, in one motion, he emptied the glass. For a long while Blakeney stared at it, turning it over in his hand. The thin streams of brandy coated the inside in a transparent caramel sort of way. This reminded the Baronet of happier times, and unaware, the 32-year-old man blinked back a wetness that fell past his eyelashes to rest on his cheekbone.
There was a time, not very long ago, when friends could surround him and his coldly trained heart did not mind that when the party was over, he was going home alone. Independence suited him, and silence comforted him like a mother. For years, Blakeney Manor had been such a studious place where servants did their jobs and Sir Percy read to pass the time. What had he embarked upon?
His nostrils threatened to leak, and he countered the action by in taking air loudly into his lungs. Blakeney felt his mouth muscles quiver and made use of the satin handkerchief in his richly decorated pocket. "Where are you mother?" His childlike voice whispered. The sun that had earlier lit the room was now barely a sliver on the distant horizon, turning the room into orange shades of black.
The study took on a new look of hopelessness, for everything was meticulously in place save the lone man sitting in the middle of the room on the footstool. Carefully, the Baronet placed the brandy snifter on the floor, and then his rump followed until it met with wood. "Where are you mother!" In anger, he looked up at the ceiling and tossed his arms about, cursing when the hand gestured quickly down, ending abruptly when bone met the hard leg of the footstool.
The sharp pains of wood thrust into flesh brought more crying from the spirit induced man and he accused, "Look at me! Are you both happy? Happy FATHER? With what I've become as you had predicted?" His last statement made him think of times gone by. Edward, Tony, Andrew, and Frederick. They were the only ones once in his safe world and now he was weakened by the person who is supposed to give a husband strength. Percy brought both hands to his face and, grabbing his temple, tried to force his brain to make sense of it all.
"God? Mother?" He cried now, stretching out the six odd feet of Englishman across the study floor, "What do I do?" The Baronet's nasal passages filled and he coughed in a poor attempt to regain control over his breathing. "Help me....please.... I beg you, please help me... what do I do?" He tried to speak again, but the words were engulfed when he lost control completely and the only sound coming from outside Blakeney's den door were his sobs.
When the fit of emotions at last slowed down into a whimpering sort of breath, Blakeney let out a sigh of air and his body began to relax. His legs stretched out uncomfortably behind him, and the gangly arms sprawled limply in front of his face. For all purposes, he looked like a man tortured or dead: useless lying on the floor. Temporary peace found Sir Percy after he his senses gave up and forced his mind into slumber.