Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Owen felt like hell and knew he must have looked even worse when Leo’s eyes widened at the sight of him. They were outside a rather awful little hovel of a place near White Chapel.
“I’m glad you arrived so quickly, but…” Leo brushed blond hair out of his eyes. “Is Milly making married life difficult?” He worded the question carefully.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Where the bloody hell is Jack?” Owen brushed the travel dust off his sleeves and stared coldly at the pub house’s wooden door. It was a nameless little hole in the wall, in utter shambles.
“He’s inside. He refused to come out when I asked him to. He asked for you.” Leo’s eyes were heavy with sorrow.
“Very well, let’s fetch him.” Owen shouldered his way into the dingy little pub and found Jack at once.
He was slumped over a bar, his eyes glassy, an empty bottle loosely held in one hand, humming an old tune.
At first the notes weren’t recognizable, and off-key.
Then Jack straightened a little and put more gusto into the sound and the tune changed, becoming a song Owen remembered.
A song etched into his bones. It was a tune they’d sung during their days in Africa.
A tune that froze Owen in his tracks for a few seconds.
It was “Goodbye, Dolly Gray,” a song he and Jack had sung the night before half of their regiment had perished.
Blinding sun, decaying flesh, the cries of vultures, and the silence.
I can do this. He reminded himself the war was over, that he wasn’t stranded in a foreign country surrounded by blood and death, not anymore.
“Jack,” he said, his tone gentle but firm as he approached his friend.
It had been months since he’d seen Jack Watson, and the days had not been kind to him.
He was too thin, his cheeks too hollow, his once-muscled body weak from lack of food and exercise.
At the sound of Owen’s voice, Jack lifted his head, his eyes clearing a bit.
“Hadley,” he sighed, and smiled. “Hampton said you’d come. I wanted to wait for you.” His speech was thick with drink.
“And here I am. Why don’t you take supper with Hampton and me?” Owen leaned against the bar, blocking some rows of liquor bottles from Jack’s view. The pub was empty except for an ancient man at the far end of the bar, wiping pint glasses with a gray rag.
“Come on, Jack. Supper would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Leo shared a worried glance with Owen; then when Jack turned to him, fire in his eyes, Leo backed up a step.
Owen hated this. He, Jack, and Leo had been friends—great friends—so long ago.
Three mischievous lads at Eton sneaking out at night to get into mischief the way only boys could.
They’d gone to Cambridge together, too, their bonds even tighter than before.
But the war had eaten away at their boyhood ties.
Leo had tended to his estate, while Jack and Owen had rushed off to Africa to fight the Boers.
None of them could have known what awaited them on the shores of Africa—and even Jack, who had once been optimistic and carefree, was reduced to this most basic of beings.
Jack had been unable to sleep, to eat; he curled up inside a bottle, ready to die.
Leo had become the enemy to Jack, because he hadn’t served; he couldn’t understand the horrors, the sacrifices, the tragedy of war.
Only Owen had held the three of them together by a grasp as tenuous as a fine thread.
“Jack, what if you come to Wesden Heath and spend some time with me?” Owen offered.
As it was, it couldn’t make things worse.
Milly had run from him. She’d gotten hurt and withdrawn, just as he’d feared she would.
He had no damned clue how to convince her he wasn’t a blaggard.
If only he hadn’t run into William Brandon, the damned ignorant fool.
He’d told Milly the truth about Scarlett but it hadn’t seemed to matter.
The damage was done. She thought the worst of him.
Spending some time with Jack couldn’t be nearly as bad as being so close to his wife and having no way to touch her or hold her.
She needed a reprieve from him to settle and he needed time enough to figure out how to win her back and return his home to the peace and comfort he’d been working toward.
“Come with you?” Jack blinked through bleary eyes.
“Yes. To Wesden Heath. It would do you good to spend time in the country.” Owen shared a look with Leo and the other man gave a subtle nod.
“I suppose,” Jack grumbled, and tried to stand. He made it two feet before the glass bottle he held slipped from his lax grip, shattering on the floor even as Leo and Owen swept in and grabbed Jack around the arms, supporting his dead weight.
“Do you need a cab back to Wesden?” Leo asked.
“No, I have one waiting for me at the corner. I’ll bring him back to Wesden after he’s had a week or so to sleep off the drink at a hotel,” Owen explained.
It would be easier to let Jack dry up in a hotel with Owen to watch over him and then bring him home to Wesden Heath, where he would have an easier chance of stealing liquor from cabinets and hiding it away for later consumption.
If Owen could keep Jack confined in a small room without access to anything but food and water, he might be able to get him through the worst of his withdrawal.
“I’ll be in London for a few days if you need me,” Leo replied as they walked out of the pub and headed toward the hired cab waiting on the corner.
“Thank you,” Owen said as he helped Jack into the back of the cab.
Leo took the front seat of the cab. “I’ll ride with you and help you get him settled.”
Owen nodded. The driver started the engine and headed for the hotel address Owen gave him.
Owen vowed that the moment he reached the hotel, he’d write Milly a letter letting her know he was staying in town to help Jack.
She deserved to know him, to understand his life, his past. Maybe she would be able to forgive him for having a past. None of it influenced his life now with her, but he had to make her understand that.
He wanted their marriage to be a good one.
Passion and love may someday be able to follow. He hoped.
She deserves to be loved, loved fiercely and passionately. And I want to be the man who loves her…
Milly collapsed into a plush chair in the library.
A dinner tray sat on a nearby table. Mrs. Nelson had asked the cook to prepare another hearty feast of beef and soup, and Milly wondered if the woman was trying to fatten her up.
She’d spent the entire day working alongside the new fleet of footmen and housemaids to train them and to determine what repairs and cleaning were needed on the rooms. Despite the new staff being able to take over the cleaning, she had worked alongside them, unable to sit still.
If she did, she thought of Owen and it made her chest ache.
Working herself to the bone had been the only way to dull the pain in her chest, and Wesden Heath looked much better for it.
Old ratty drapes in three of the bedrooms had been removed and new fabrics ordered, carpets had been taken outside and beaten of their dust, and then the wood floors had been mopped and polished.
Mr. Boyd and Mrs. Nelson had balked at first when Milly had made it clear she wished to actually do much of the physical labor alongside the staff.
They hadn’t minded when Owen was there to join her, but now that there was plenty of help to go around, the servants had insisted she go rest. A few heated arguments had ensued throughout the morning following Owen’s departure, but once the new staff had arrived, both the butler and the housekeeper were too distracted by the necessary training of the new young men and ladies to put up any resistance to Milly’s new control of the house.
After two days, everyone had settled into a routine of work while they waited for Owen to return.
Milly was exhausted after the last few days of hard work and looked forward to a quiet evening reading in a chair with a blanket wrapped around her.
The library door opened and Mr. Boyd entered, a package in his hands.
“Mistress, this came with the evening post.” He handed her the package.
“Thank you, Mr. Boyd. How are the footmen?” she inquired.
The butler straightened his shoulders with a natural air that demanded respect. “They will do. A bit rambunctious, but well-tempered lads.”
She bit her lip to hide her smile. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.” She studied the package in her hands, seeing the name of a hotel as the sender. “Mr. Boyd, who sent this?” she asked.
The butler hesitated. “Perhaps Mr. Hadley. He has been known to take rooms there when in London.”
Owen? She sat up, despite the protestations of her body.
Ever since she’d read the telegram, questions had been building, plaguing upon her mind and heart as she wondered where and what Owen might be doing.
She would never have asked a servant anything in the past, not something so intimate about her husband, but she felt that she and Mr. Boyd were almost comrades in arms in the battle to restore Wesden Heath to its former glory.
She squared her shoulders and spoke. “Mr. Boyd, may I ask you something? I’m afraid it might be a bit personal, but it has to do with my husband.
What do you know about Jack? Mr. Hadley received a telegram asking him to go to London to help someone named Jack.
I assume it’s Jack Watson? Owen mentioned him to me once, but I don’t know very much about him. ”
Mr. Boyd cleared his throat, looking out a distant window on the opposite end of the library before replying. “Mr. Jack Watson has been a friend of Mr. Hadley’s since they were boys. Fought in the war together. Mr. Watson even lived here for a time after the war but—”