Chapter 3
Any other man on any other horse would have run into a tree trunk in the orchard or tripped upon ground roots in the woodlands, cantering as they did through the darkness of the Wellwood estate.
Alexander was grateful that the night sky was clear, with defined stars and the moon so bright that it paved his way with a mellow, dim light.
He experienced a bittersweet wave of joy as they negotiated the meandering pathways without obstacle.
Three years had passed, yet the moment his foot had hit home turf, Alexander was renewed with a fierce sense of belonging.
His eye had caught on the house at the top of the estate; in the darkness, he could only make out its shape, but well he knew the welcoming honey-coloured Bath stone and balustrades framing the terrace outside the large sash windows.
Home. Smiling sadly, he headed directly to the stable, hoping his loyal steed, Stirling, would still be alive.
His eyes were readying to weep at the prospect of his poor horse having not survived his absence.
Yet he was there! Tall and proud as he always was, though—Alexander noted as the horse whinnied in the funny way he always did—his ribcage protruded a little too distinctly.
Alexander opened the stable door to greet his pet fully, and as he prepared to mount him, he noticed how the usually silky black coat was unbrushed and his flowing mane matted.
“How have you been neglected, my friend?” Alexander spoke over the lump in his throat. He felt sure his brother would have taken care of Stirling in his wake, and this worried him; Thomas had not made any mention of Marcus’s health—was Marcus, too, suffering some difficulty?
Alexander looked in on the other stables. His mother’s pony, Lillian, stood there rather sadly, and one other horse that worked the fields, but three years ago these stables housed twenty horses! Alexander pondered where they had all disappeared.
Stirling was excitable, and it was a joy for Alexander to ride him again, even if it had to be bareback. They galloped through the meadow in the moonlight; this was where they used to race, and Stirling seemed as ecstatic as Alexander felt to be here together, once again.
As they entered the woodlands, though, Alexander noticed how the bordering fence panels had come loose and some lay in the shrubs, as though they had been there for some time.
The grass had grown so high, and the gardens were clearly unmaintained. The land had not been cared for; his father would rage to see it in such a state of dilapidation. Alexander shook his head, not understanding how Marcus could have allowed their beautiful home to deteriorate to such an extent.
Alexander slowed Stirling as they approached the old oak tree, so warmly familiar to him.
This was where he had taught Marcus to climb, as a small boy with pudgy little legs; he remembered how Marcus would get agitated that he couldn’t reach the higher branches, and Alexander would lift him to reach all the same parts of the tree he himself could.
It then became their brotherly hideout where they would play for hours during summer days before they were called in for dinner.
And there—Alexander studied the core of the tree—it was still there. An engraved heart with the initials ‘AH and ‘AS’. He almost chuckled to himself as he remembered himself and Arabella selecting stones sharp enough to scrape into the bark.
Arabella lamented that she didn’t want to harm the tree, looking warily to their chaperone, who turned a blind eye, and Alexander had laughed affectionately.
He loved her compassion, her thoughtfulness and … Alexander stopped himself from thinking too deeply of her. His smile dropped, and he encouraged Stirling to move forward.
It was harder than he’d imagined, being back at Wellwood. He had wrongly assumed that the feelings of familiarity and nostalgia would rise out of missing his father and his eagerness to see his mother and brother.
However, since Thomas had advised him that Arabella was currently residing here, it burned to know she was so close by, yet he could not see her. Alexander blinked back tears; this was not an appropriate time for sentimentality. He needed to access the house with stealth and focused senses.
It was risky to ride any closer to the house on thundering hooves, Alexander recognized this, but he had—for once—embraced his impulses.
His need to be with his horse and experience the feeling of belonging in his familiar surroundings had overpowered the sensible option.
He brought his horse to a slow walk as they approached the house.
Slowly navigating the overgrown bridleway that passed the kitchens, however, Alexander wished Stirling would hush; the horse was so joyful on their unexpected expedition that he was making little whinnying noises, and Alexander didn’t want the household staff to suspect a horse had got loose and for them to come outside to investigate.
So as not to risk Stirling’s involuntary audible contribution, they trotted back to a working outhouse a little further away from the main entrance, and Alexander settled Stirling there with the intention of walking back up to the house alone.
As he approached, he could scarcely believe the crumbling stone, and he assessed the fallen-in roof with disdain.
“What has happened here, brother?” Alexander whispered under his breath.
He dismounted and skirted around on the overgrown grass, avoiding the gravel driveway, which would betray his approach.
Alexander sneaked down a path to a door that led to a secret passage he would play in with his brother when they were small.
The door itself was slightly stuck, and he wondered if the last time it was opened was, in fact, by himself, as he’d escaped covered in blood on that fated night three years ago.
In their childhood, they had been aware that servants used the passages for discreet journeys in and out of the house, but it was clear to Alexander that they had not been used for such missions by anybody in recent times, as the void was clustered with thick, springy cobwebs.
Taking a deep breath, Alexander cleared the cobwebs that obstructed his route and began to make slow progress along the passageway, pausing every few steps to check for sounds of anybody aroused by his intrusion and to clear more spider webs out of his way.
Not only did the house stand in complete, eerie silence, but it felt hollow and empty. This grand abode that once bustled with energy and joy now exuded a grim feeling of desolation.
Alexander knew that these desperate measures to access the house were ill-advised and that Thomas would be astounded by his foolish venture, but Alexander found life challenging enough—if he had to live it knowing he had passed up the opportunity to hold his mother one last time, it would be inconceivable for him to continue.
He knew he had to see her, even if the risk of being discovered would result in incarceration.
He reached the end of the passage and pushed through to the door next to the pantry.
***
There were no servants in the corridor, to Alexander’s relief, and as he reached his mother’s private sitting room, he took a deep breath—praying she would be there and that nobody else would be—before pushing open the door.
He saw her across the room; in the large, opulently dressed room, she looked so small.
She was a frail version of the healthy mother he had known three years ago.
Her hair was now mostly silver, her face pale, her eyelids thin and pink, and her veiny hands clutched in her lap over a crocheted blanket.
In the brief moment before she became aware of the door opening and somebody entering, he had a moment to observe her, and his heart fell at the realization he had still been expecting to find a lady with plump, rosy cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile for everybody, just as she always had.
The woman in front of him, ensconced in a high-backed upholstered armchair and covered in blankets, had become an old lady. He loved her dearly, but differently now; not with merriment and abundance but protectively, defensively.
Her relaxed face as she looked across the spacious room towards the door told him she had been expecting somebody else; her lady’s maid, perhaps.
Upon seeing him, her eyes widened in shock, and her arms went directly to the chair to push herself up, desperate to be near him.
Her mouth fell open, and water instantly filled her eyes as she gasped in a rasping voice, “Alexander!”
He crossed the room in mere seconds and went to her, embracing her, partly in eagerness to be close to her after missing her so intensely, but additionally, to save her from falling forward.
A segment of his mind thought about how awful it would be if he came to say goodbye and ended up being the catalyst for a fall that spelled her end.
He practically caught her in his arms as she propelled herself upwards towards him.
“My son! My beautiful first-born!” The words escaped her in croaky breaths as she sobbed at his presence.
Alexander held her closely to him. “Mother!” He kissed the top of her head affectionately. “I have missed you profoundly!”
They clutched to one another and eventually, Margaret looked up into his face and smoothed a shaking hand over his cheek, as she would when he was a small boy, as she told him stories at bedtime. Alexander closed his eyes, indulging in that comforting touch that only a mother could impart.
As she looked up at him, he noted that the whites of her eyes were not yellowed and bloodshot as he would have expected. Whilst watery, they were bright and discerning. Her voice, as it began to clear from the initial emotion, was not as hoarse.
Whilst she was skinny and weak beneath his palms, she did not seem as near to death as he had feared. He allowed a smile to spread across his face. Looking her closely in the face, there was his mother; she was still in there.
“You’re here!” Margaret stated in celebration.
“I am,” Alexander confirmed, “though I shouldn’t be …”
“Thomas told you?”
“That you are unwell, yes, Mother, I …”
“You must listen, Alexander,” Margaret rushed in a whispered hush. “I have been unable to sleep, finding it near impossible to eat … knowing the truth as I do …”
“Truth, Mother?”
“Yes, dear son. It is important … you must listen …”
Her words were now urgent and clipped, her whispers close to his ear in urgency.
“Knowing my innocent, darling son lived in exile while the real killer walks free … I cannot tell–”
“Is Marcus well, Mother?” Alexander interrupted. The insistence in her voice instinctively told him their time together was finite, and he needed her to answer this most crucial of questions before he could be satisfied.
“Marcus?” Margaret seemed wrong-footed by his question, and then her eyes wandered cautiously to the door as she asked in alarm, “He isn’t home?”
“No, Mother. My query was not regarding his whereabouts, but his health. The house, the grounds are in disarray. Marcus has not been tending to the estate—is the burden of such responsibility too much for him?”
Margaret batted her eyes at her son in confusion, and as she took a breath to answer, he noticed she was trembling.
“Marcus battles with demons he cannot name, Alexander …” Margaret clutched him as though she might faint, and he held onto her to further support her, gently lowering her back into her armchair and crouching beside her.
“He …” Margaret began, but there came a sound from the corridor. Purposeful steps approached. Margaret’s eyes widened in recognition of the stride, and she inhaled sharply.
Alexander’s eyes darted to the green fabric dressing screen beside the fireplace, and wondered if he would reach it in time, but he already knew there would be no time for him to leave or hide, and before he even had a chance to try, his mother grabbed his shirt, pulling him in close to whisper urgently.
“All is not as it seems, Alexander! I have been watching, waiting, gathering strength for the right moment–”
The door opened, and Alexander heard a sharp inhalation of shocked breath before the sharp crash of porcelain announced their discovery. The tea tray shattered on the floor as their secret meeting was exposed.