Chapter Two
Lady Georgina had not expected to feel anything upon her return to Sommer-by-the-Sea, least of all a pang. But there it was, sharp and unwelcome, as the carriage rolled past the familiar bend where lavender grew stubbornly wild against the stone.
It had been nearly four years since she’d truly traveled these roads.
Her last real arrival was marked by a newly inked marriage certificate and guarded optimism.
Since then, there had been fleeting visits, little more than duty and decorum.
Now, widowed, unanchored, and oddly restless, she returned not to her husband’s home but to a solicitor’s office to settle Rowland’s affairs.
The door latch was cool beneath her gloved hand, the luster of its brass dulled by sea air.
She remembered touching it once before, years ago, when she’d stood beside her new husband, the future laid out like a map before them.
Now, she traced that same handle, but the course had worn thin at the edges.
The nameplate on the door read Hughes, Swift & Lacey.
She stood at the threshold. The office smelled of parchment and pipe smoke, as it always had, but now the air felt heavier somehow, as if burdened by unfinished affairs.
She wondered if her husband had sat at this very desk, thumbing over the same ledgers.
She smoothed her gloves, stepped inside, and nearly came to a stop.
Alexander Weld stood beside the window, tall and severe in black, his profile as sharp as the last memory she had of him boarding a ship, eyes unreadable, jaw set against grief.
“My lord,” she said carefully.
Weld turned, and for a moment, neither spoke.
She hadn’t seen him in years, but the shape of him, still and steady in the morning light, was disarmingly familiar. He had always carried himself like a man preparing to be disappointed by the world, and yet, she remembered the boy who once believed it could be better.
Weld’s shoulders stiffened, perhaps bracing for a tide of memory or something worse. “Lady Georgina,” he said finally. “I didn’t expect—” His gaze swept briefly over her, as if confirming she was not a ghost of the past but standing before him in truth.
“Nor I,” she replied, offering a tight smile. “I am sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” she added, her voice measured but sincere. “I had not known.”
His gaze flicked away, briefly. “It was sudden.” He offered nothing more.
“Your husband’s holdings are handled here. As are mine.” His voice was rougher than she remembered. Deeper. Like coal dragged through velvet.
The solicitor entered before awkwardness could thicken.
“Ah, Lady Ravenstock, Lord Hawkesbury. How fortunate. You both have matters to settle regarding adjoining estates. Perhaps we might speak together?”
Georgina blinked. “Together?”
Weld gave her a wry glance. “It seems fate has a sense of humor, or a cruel imagination”
“The matter concerns the jointly held parcel at Ashdown Hill,” Mr. Hughes said, thumbing through a thin stack of documents.
“Jointly held?” Georgina looked from Hughes to Alexander in surprise.
Mr. Hughes frowned as he shuffled the remaining papers. “Curious. There should be a transfer of trust documents here as well. Lord Ravenstock had requested it be drawn up separately from his will.” He lifted his head and glanced at Georgina. “A precaution, he called it.”
Weld’s brow darkened. “And it is missing?”
“So it seems,” Hughes admitted, troubled as he searched through the papers again. “Your father’s copy resolves the joint use of the mine, but the question of Lady Ravenstock’s legal stewardship of her late husband’s holdings remains… incomplete.”
Georgina tilted her head, keeping her tone neutral. “Then I expect we must search the estate records more thoroughly.”
“Yes, it includes grazing land, timber rights, and the Ashdown Hill Mine. However, I must confess that there is no final agreement on record.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Hughes?” Georgina was still in shock.
“It is uncommon, but not unheard of, for such parcels to benefit both estates, provided the parties remain amenable.”
Weld’s brow furrowed. “There should be a document.” He reached inside his coat, and withdrew a folded parchment. “My father kept meticulous records,” he added, passing it across the desk.
Mr. Hughes unfolded it, his eyes brightening. “Remarkable. This appears to settle matters precisely.”
Georgina leaned closer, her gaze flicking from the solicitor to Weld. “I recall my husband mentioning this, but I hadn’t realized the agreement was so well-preserved.” She met Weld’s eyes, a note of quiet appreciation in her voice. “Your father’s diligence serves us both, my lord.”
Weld offered a faint, wry smile. “For once, I find myself grateful for his obsession with detail.”
An hour later, papers signed and tempers mostly intact, they stepped out into the sunlight.
“Would you allow me to buy you a cup of tea?” Weld asked, not quite looking at her. “For old times’ sake.”
She hesitated. Then: “Yes… Why not?”
As they walked, Georgina noted the way townsfolk greeted Alex with quiet deference, their nods and brief glances, a silent acknowledgement of his new position. Had they always regarded him so, or was it the mantle of responsibility that now draped across his shoulders?
Once, they laughed over sweet rolls and squabbled over poetry in the Ravenstock library. Now he bore a title, a weight, a hush of respect wherever he walked. She studied him with quiet interest, wondering what years of command and loss had shaped him to be.
They continued toward the tea shop near the harbor, and the damp haze that had shrouded the morning began to lift.
The lane to the harbor sloped gently, worn smooth by years of salt air and boot heels. Georgina walked at an unhurried pace.
She stole a glance at Alex, not overt, but enough to note the changes time had carved. The rigid lines of his youth had eased, though his mouth still seemed a fraction too serious for a spring morning.
“You haven’t changed as much as I expected,” she said lightly, her eyes ahead.
“Nor you,” he replied. “Though when I saw your name listed among the estate matters, I half-feared you might have turned into a mercenary, descending upon my holdings with a pack of solicitors.”
Her brow arched, amused despite herself. “What a flattering impression.”
“A foolish one,” he conceded. “You were always too clever for such dramatics.”
A breeze teased the hem of her pelisse as they rounded the corner near the harbor green. The scent of brine and wild thyme drifted in the air, and the familiar cry of gulls overhead tugged at a half-buried memory.
“You were abroad, then, when you heard of your father’s passing?” she asked, her tone softened by curiosity rather than sympathy.
“I was,” Weld answered. He hesitated before adding, “On the Peninsula. News travels slowly, as you know.”
She inclined her head. She did know. Too well. “You served with distinction, they say.”
He gave a small shrug, as if brushing off both praise and memory. “I returned with enough scars to impress the uninformed, if that counts as distinction.”
The wryness in his voice coaxed a genuine smile from her, small but real. “You were never one to boast, my lord.”
“No,” he said, glancing at her properly for the first time. His gaze lingered, thoughtful. “But I am grateful to be here, in spite of it all.”
They reached the small tea shop overlooking the harbor, its windows clouded with the salt-fog that clung to the glass and softened the view beyond. The bell above the door gave a polite chime as they entered, and the familiar scent of bergamot and warm bread wrapped around them.
Tatiana Rostov looked up from arranging a tray near the counter, surprise brightening her features. “Lady Ravenstock! Lord Hawkesbury!” She set down the teapot and wiped her hands on her apron. “It has been too long.”
Alex offered a nod of greeting. “Miss Rostov. I’d begun to think no one else dared rival your scones.”
Tatiana laughed. “I do my best to uphold my family’s reputation, my lord. Your usual table?”
He deferred to Georgina with a courteous tilt of his head. “If Lady Ravenstock approves.”
They followed Tatiana to a corner near the window, where the hum of conversation and the low thrum of the sea blended in companionable rhythm. She returned a moment later with a fresh pot of tea and two delicate plates.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Tatiana said warmly before leaving them to their privacy.
“It hasn’t changed,” Georgina observed, stirring her tea. “The village still keeps its secrets behind a polite facade.”
“Some of them,” Alex replied. “Others have learned new tricks. There’s talk of expanding the shipyards, and a new railway line from the north.”
She smiled faintly. “Progress, then. Rowland would have liked that. He was forever sketching plans to bring more men to work.”
“And you?” he asked, watching her over the rim of his cup. “Do you like the sound of progress?”
“I like the sound of fairness,” she said. “If progress brings that, I’ll applaud it. If not, I reserve judgment.”
His mouth curved in a ghost of amusement. “You’ve not changed.”
“I should hope I have. I was twenty when we last argued about fairness.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You called me a moral philosopher without a cause.”
“And you called me a dreamer with too much sense.”
They shared a glance, brief but companionable, before she turned back to the window. The moment settled between them, comfortable in its simplicity.
Outside, gulls wheeled above the masts. Inside, the quiet clatter of cups and low conversation lent the room an intimacy that had nothing to do with sentiment, only the ease of two people remembering how to speak without pretense.
“Tell me,” she said after a moment, “what brings you back here besides your father’s affairs?”
He hesitated, setting his cup aside. “Obligation, mostly. The mine needs attention. There have been incidents.”
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “So I’ve heard. Rowland believed there were structural faults in the lower shafts. He was drafting proposals for reinforcement before the accident.”
Weld’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Did he leave those notes?”
“In his papers, I expect. I’ll have them sent to you if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
The conversation slowed, not from discomfort but from recognition of all that remained unspoken.
When they finally rose to leave, Georgina glanced once more toward the harbor, where sunlight glimmered over the tidepools.
“Strange,” she murmured, reaching for her gloves. “The sea always looks the same, yet it never is.”
“Like people,” Alex said quietly.
She met his eyes—steady, unstartled—and smiled. “Perhaps.”
Outside, the afternoon light had turned golden, softening the edges of the town. They stepped into it side by side, the distance between them measured not in years, but in the quiet possibility of knowing each other anew.