Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Captain Owen Buckley stepped onto English soil for the first time in nine years and inhaled the cold, briny sea air.
It smelled no different from what he’d been drinking in the last five months on the ship, but the familiarity of his own language, bandied between passing sailors and shouted from the men pulling up baskets of fish from a docked ship, pulled deep in his chest.
He was home.
Well, nearly. There was another week or so in a carriage before he reached Buckley Place to comfort his bereaved aunt, and then freedom was his.
He had a debt to settle and business to manage for his friend before he could devote himself to his future.
But there was time enough for all that. Owen needed to gather investors, after all.
If his uncle had left him any amount of funds, they would go far in supporting his dreams.
He might have chosen the army, but he’d witnessed far too many young boys devote their lives to the service against their wishes, and he was determined to do something about it.
“Out o’ the way,” someone called, bumping his shoulder as he lugged a basket of slimy fish across the dock.
Owen tipped his hat to the man, catching only his retreating back.
When he turned to pick up his valise, he collided with another gentleman in a gray coat.
“Forgive me, sir. I didn’t see you there. ”
The man corrected his hat, pulling at his sleeve. “It is no matter. My head was in the clouds.” He stopped, narrowing his eyes. “I say, you look familiar.”
Owen surveyed the gentleman, his dark gaze calling to mind memories of a time he had long since put to rest. Simon Yardley was a neighbor of Owen’s aunt and uncle in Briarstead—only a year or two younger than Owen, if he remembered correctly.
He recalled the man well enough to claim an acquaintance, though he did not want to.
He felt a slight temptation to feign ignorance and leave, but he was too honest by half.
Besides, from what he recalled, Mr. Yardley had always been something of a slow top.
It would not take long to extricate himself.
“Captain Owen Buckley,” Owen said, putting out his hand.
“Captain! By Jove, that has a nice ring to it.” They shook hands. “How long have you been a captain?”
“Six years.” Owen lifted his valise from the dock. “You are from Briarstead.”
“Simon Yardley.” He flashed a smile, his slightly crooked teeth on full display.
Dark blond hair curled out from beneath his gray hat, and his clothing, while nice, was rumpled—a telltale sign he’d been on a ship recently as well.
“On my way home after an unfortunate bout across the sea. I had to charter my passage on a naval ship from Portugal and feared I’d never make it out of Porto. ”
“Were you there on business?”
“What a ghastly word. Of course not.” He laughed heartily, then sobered. “Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose. But I don’t like to think of it that way. Brought a case of port home with me, and if all goes well, I’m going to own a vineyard there soon.”
Owen blinked at him. Was he unaware that purchasing a vineyard or traveling to see to it was precisely what business entailed? Ninnyhammer, indeed. Owen had very little patience for gentlemen of that ilk, high in the instep and incapable of seeing outside of themselves.
A pity.
“Where did you come in from?” Mr. Yardley asked.
“Chartered my passage on a naval ship as well. It was the fastest route I could find home.” Owen drew his coat tighter. “I’ve been in India these last nine years.”
“I’d heard you went and joined the king’s army. Suppose that’s what the captain bit is all about. Did you enjoy it?”
Owen did not have a ready reply. He’d grown to love some of the people.
He certainly admired his men and most of his leaders.
The heat left much to be desired, and his skin had darkened from all the exposure to the sun, but his time in India had been a period of growth.
When he’d received the summons from his uncle’s solicitor, however, he’d found it a relief to be called home.
“Yes,” he said simply. It was the truth, though it felt as though he was understating the matter. There was much about it he did not like, but he would not get into all that.
“It was nice to see you, Captain.” Mr. Yardley searched the street. “Though I’d better be on my way. I’ve hired a carriage to take me up to Briarstead, and I’d as lief it didn’t abandon me.”
“I will be on my way to Briarstead shortly,” Owen told him. “Perhaps I will see you there.”
“You don’t say. Visiting your uncle, I suppose.”
Owen’s stomach tightened. How long had he been away from home? “You haven’t heard, then?”
Mr. Yardley’s brow knit. “Is he unwell?”
“He died last year. Stroke.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Always did like the old man.”
“As did I.” Owen shifted his grip on his valise, the pain of loss slicing through him again.
Uncle Edward had been like a father, and despite their regular correspondence, Owen could not help but feel guilt when he recalled how long he had stayed away.
A cowardly dog with his tail tucked neatly between his legs, that’s what he’d been. “I’m traveling north to see my aunt.”
“I will invite you both to dine, then. It will be a treat to visit, and I daresay my sister will like to see you again.”
When Owen last visited, Miss Yardley had been too young to spend any time with them. Owen could hardly recall her. But he’d only really had eyes for one young woman, anyway.
He said the proper thing. “We would enjoy that.”
Mr. Yardley clapped him on the back suddenly, jarring him. “Say, I’ve a capital idea. Save your blunt and ride in my carriage. I have the thing ordered already, and it would be more comfortable passing the trip in your company than my own.”
“Do you not have a man with you? A valet?”
Mr. Yardley laughed. “Lost him in Portugal, if you’ll credit it. The blasted man chose to stay there. No, I don’t have anyone to travel with. I intend to hire a new man when I’m home. I thought to stop in London on the way, but I’m eager to reach Derbyshire.”
That was a sentiment Owen understood deeply in his core. He’d been on a ship for months, eating tasteless food and constantly rocking. Even now, he felt the ground shifting slightly, rolling with the ebb and flow of the waves.
Since he hadn’t yet left the dock, that was possible.
He was hungry for Buckley Place. For Aunt Clara’s kind smile and her cook’s hearty English food. For the misty Derbyshire mornings and bleating of sheep in the fields. He longed for solid, secure earth and the things that tied him to England.
He might find it painful returning to the place where he’d once had his heart ripped from his chest and torn to shreds, but he would not know the extent of that until he reached Briarstead and those feelings could be expelled.
He’d done so when he left nine years ago, and he could do so again if they chose to resurface as he returned.
He was tempted to inquire after Lord and Lady Gifford—were they seen out often?
Would he be likely to run into them again? Would it hurt?
But Mr. Yardley did not keep up well with news of Briarstead, clearly, and Owen would do better to put her from his mind.
“I am eager for it as well,” Owen said. He moved his valise to the other hand. “My trunk should be at the end of the dock here. Lead the way, and I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Yardley.”
“Call me Simon, please,” he said, scowling. “We are old acquaintances, at the very least. Though you won’t convince me to call you anything other than Captain. By Jove, you’ve earned it.” He gave a hearty laugh, endearing himself to Owen.
They started their walk along the water’s edge. A seagull swooped past, crying out. The swinging sign above the Rose and Crown creaked in the wind. Owen felt closer to home with each passing moment, anticipation building within him. “Have you eaten a decent English meal recently, Simon?”
He puffed his cheeks and released the breath all at once. “Can’t say I have.”
“Shall we find your carriage, then have our fill before we set out? I’ve a deep wish for a roast smothered in gravy.”
“Capital idea. You order our meals; I’ll locate the carriage.”
Owen explained where his trunk could be retrieved, opting to hold onto his valise as he wanted to keep it inside the carriage with him. It didn’t contain valuables of a worldly nature—those were all locked away in his trunk—but held the things most dear to him, things he would be lost without.
Among those possessions was the last letter his uncle had written to him before his death, outlining the project he had recently completed and the two new ones he’d begun on the house.
He had waxed long on the list of things he wanted to do eventually.
It held no vital information, but it was the final thing Uncle Edward had written to him.
The next letter he received came not two months afterward.
It was from Edward’s solicitor, arriving before Aunt Clara’s missive, and requested Owen’s presence in order to read out the will.
The solicitor, Mr. Hobbs, had politely but firmly asked him to make haste.
But how did a man pack up nine years of his life and bid farewell to the place he had been for nearly a decade? He’d booked his passage immediately but took a fortnight packing his sole trunk and taking his leave of the friends he’d made in Calcutta.
Pushing through the door into the Rose and Crown, the smell of yeasty beer overwhelmed him. He ordered two plates of dinner and sat on a solid chair, glad for the way the floor didn’t sway beneath his feet.
By the time Simon found him, Owen had received both dinners and slowly picked his way through half his plate, unable to wait much longer.
“Had a devil of a time tracking down my coachman,” he said on an exhale, lifting his knife and fork and plunging in. “Oh, this is divine.”
“Can’t imagine you had anything like it on the ship.”
“You know what it’s like.” Simon took another bite, then washed it down with a swig of ale. “Salted fish and hardtack.”
Owen chuckled, cutting a bite of his meat. “Indeed. Now, tell me of your family.”
“I will, when we reach the road. We ought to hurry if we are to pass through Devonshire by nightfall.”
A man after his own heart. Perhaps Simon had matured in the last decade. It was worth offering him the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.
Owen bent his attention to his dinner, and shortly after, they found themselves outside, circling the carriage Simon had hired for the journey.
Owen’s trunk was secured to the back, layered beneath a smaller trunk and a crate—likely the port.
They climbed inside and took off, the vehicle rumbling comfortably down the cobbled street on well-sprung wheels.
Now, at last, he was going to the place that felt the most like home to him, to spend time with the aunt who was akin to a second mother, where they could quietly grieve the passing of Uncle Edward together, and he could see to it she had everything she needed.
Without a man in the house, Aunt Clara perhaps needed guidance in orchestrating the completion of her husband’s projects and managing the bailiff, or overseeing the tasks Edward had previously been responsible for.
But that would all be managed later. Owen sighed quietly, relaxing into the seat. One simple fact brought him peace.
This time next week, he would be in Buckley Place.