CHAPTER 212: CHARLOTTE’S DEATH (2)

Charlotte’s handkerchief was stained red with blood.

George rushed to her side, looking shocked.

"I’m fine." Charlotte uttered weakly. "You shouldn’t worry about me."

George wanted to refute, but it was like his tongue was not his tongue, but lead.

In the end, he caressed her hair. Charlotte didn’t even have the strength to avoid his hand.

"Rest well."

With those words, George left the room to give Charlotte space to rest. As he closed the door, his gaze only for a second landed unintentionally on the table beside Charlotte’s bed. An empty teacup lay hhhyon it.

George finally closed the door.

Aristia wanted to glance at Charlotte but the scene changed again.

This time, it was outside the mansion. Aristia’s first reaction was to feel relieved at the change of scenery from inside the gloomy mansion to outside when the scene dawned on her.

She couldn’t feel relieved. All around her people were dressed in black. It didn’t take much for her to guess what was happening, especially when she saw the body that laid inside the coffin.

"Charlotte died." She muttered, staring at the pale body. Charlotte looked so frail laying inside the coffin, unmoving with eyes closed forever.

The coffin was closed and lowered into the ground and sand was poured in layer by layer, gradually covering the coffin.

Little by little, as the sand was being shovelled, the crowd decreased.

"What a pity. Poor Marchioness."

Aristia managed to catch some words. The person shook his head.

Soon everyone dispersed, leaving only a few figures at the scene.

The sky was gloomy, as if it was mourning.

George and Wade knelt in front of the grave and there were about seven people standing a few steps behind them.

Aristia guessed they were Charlotte’s family. The handsome older man was fair skinned and had chocolate brown eyes and the older stunningly beautiful woman he held comfortingly in his arms was brown skinned and had light brown eyes.

Their eyes held heavy sadness but there was also regret and anger.

A tall and handsome young man stepped out from their group. He had the same skin tone as his mother and had her light brown eyes. He looked to be the oldest child.

His face showed anger and hate. He was about to approach George but was held back by another young man.

He was very handsome like his older brother, had light brown skin like Charlotte, but he didn’t have the chocolate brown eyes that Charlotte had. His eyes were a lighter brown like his mother’s.

He held his brother back with one hand and held a little boy’s hand with the other. The little boy was cute and had the father’s fair skin and chocolate eyes. Tears continuously streamed down his face as he gripped his brother’s hand.

"Let go." The oldest said to his brother with gritted teeth. "I said, let go! This bastard is responsible for Charlotte’s death. Charlotte loved him! And what did he do to her? Charlotte’s dead because of this fool!" His voice was tinged with pain and cracked slightly at the end.

His younger brother seemed to agree, but he still was more logical. He didn’t let go but gripped his brother tighter. "Calm down! This is not the time and place."

The older brother stopped at those words. His brother was right. This was Charlotte’s funeral. It wasn’t the time to settle scores with her idiotic husband.

His eyes trailed to the sad faces of his father and mother. They all seemed to agree, but now was not the time and place.

His gaze stopped at his wife. She shook her head at him. Slowly, his tensed shoulders relaxed.

His parents were angry and heartbroken but they also understood that George was a man who had lost his wife. He was also grieving. Their gazes lingered on George’s back before shifting to the figure beside him.

They glanced at Wade for a second. They knew he wasn’t at fault but they couldn’t help feeling resentment towards the child.

They instead channeled that resentment to George.

"If only we hadn’t agreed for her to be married to him." The second brother muttered, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

George looked completly different from the last time Aristia saw him in Charlotte’s room.

His handsome face was rugged and he had a rough stubble that he obviously hadn’t bothered to take care of. His eyes looked sad and tired and there was heavy regret. His lowered face clearly revealed shock, despair and a refusal to believe.

Charlotte was right there. She had been looking at him, not lying with her eyes closed under the ground.

When he had told her to rest well, he hadn’t meant death. So why was it that when he went to see her she wasn’t moving? Why was her hand cold? Why had she refused to open her eyes no matter how much and how loudly he called her name? Why was she now under the ground? Why had things turned out like this? Why had his wife been taken away from him?

He had heard their words, but he didn’t react. If Charlotte’s brother had rushed up to hit him, he would have accepted it wholeheartedly and wouldn’t defend himself. He deserved that and more.

The only words that rang in his mind was his words.

Charlotte loved him. Her words and actions in the past flashed through his mind.

It was only when it was too late that George realized he loved his wife. But what was the use of that realization now, when she would never come back to him?

Maybe if he had realized it sooner, she wouldn’t have died too sadly. Maybe she wouldn’t have died at all. He caused her death.

He preferred for her to hate him than to be dead.

Slowly, tears trailed down his cheeks for the second time in his life. George didn’t bother wiping them away. The last time he had cried was when his grandfather died eleven years ago when he was seventeen years old. Regret was the most prominent emotion he felt.

Wade, on the other hand, remained silent. He had been that way since finding out that Charlotte was no longer alive.

His head was also lowered, making it impossible for anyone to tell what he was thinking or the expression on his face.

’I killed her.’ He thought. ’If I had never been found by father... maybe she would have been alive.’

The little boy seemed to be consumed with guilt and despair, emotions not supposed to be felt by a six year old child.

Suddenly, drops of water fell from the sky as it began to drizzle. Before long, the water came down heavily as if the sky was crying too.

Their backs looked so lonely under the rain. Rain pelted on their backs as the father and son stood up, and no one could tell whether it was tears or the rain trailing down the faces of father and son.

The two looked the same as before, but different at the same time. George had changed, and so had Wade.