Chapter 13 #2
He knew his father meant every word of what he’d just said, and he bowed his head to show him respect, understanding how hard it must have been to not know if his son was alive or dead.
His father wasn’t to blame. Neither he nor anyone else could have ended his struggle.
The timing had to be right, brilliant in fact, to get past the French.
That time hadn’t come until Captain Ransome arrived.
His father didn’t know the particulars, however, of his time as a prisoner of war. The truth would crush his spirits.
“All is well, Father,” he finally said. “Do not exert yourself on my account. I would not have you relapse because of me.” His father’s eyes narrowed as he closed the distance, crossing the Axminster carpet.
“Yes. Barrett informed me about your condition, even though you advised him against it. I regret I wasn’t here to help you.
And please know, I never once doubted you weren’t trying to rescue me. ”
“It was not I who—”
“I know why I am here.” He motioned for his father to stay calm. This was a manly abode. One his mother had happily dressed every year. “This room has not aged at all since I’ve been gone,” he said changing the subject.
“Were it as easy for humans.” His father massaged his temples, his gnarled hands shakier than Chris remembered. “This was your favorite room in the house, and therefore mine,” he said. “I’ve come here often each day to meditate and pray for your safety.”
That must have been an unbearable weight to carry. “I am sorry, Father.”
“Whatever for?”
“I can only imagine how my captivity has worn on you,” he said wondering if his father would not be as frail if he hadn’t been captured.
“Nonsense.” Father grabbed the silver handle of his cane and stamped the bottom of it on the carpet three times. “You’ve been in danger. Regarding myself, the only explanation I have is that time simply caught up with me. It has a way of doing that, you know, no matter if one is willing or not.”
Chris glanced at the hearth flanked by first editions that his family acquired to preserve for the district. “But the thought of you hiding yourself away while I—”
“Who said I was hiding?” asked the forward-thinking inquisitive man.
“To be sure, I selected certain books for the tenants. And I have taken it upon myself to continue your mother’s work teaching children to read.
However, you are mistaken in honoring me with your praise.
I had nothing to do with your rescue. That honor belongs to someone else. ”
“Who then?” he asked. “I should like to know. I owe my life to the man.”
“Pshaw! This did not happen by a man’s design.”
He got the feeling his father was laughing at him but refrained from accusing him of doing so. “You said the honor belongs to someone else.”
“It does.”
“Then to whom does it belong?”
“You already know her,” his father said slyly.
“Her?” Chris asked perplexed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, confused. His father wasn’t making any sense, and the agitation was increasing his anxiety.
“You do not know?”
There was much he did not know. Seven years away from Milne Manor made him feel less like a son and more like a visitor. Five years’ worth of captivity had cleaved him from industrial and agricultural advancements and politics. Who was the prime minister? How close were they to winning the war?
“Emma brought you back to us,” his father said matter-of-factly. “It is because of her that you are here.”
Emma? The only connection she had to his escape from Gravelines was her cousin, Captain Ransome. What could she possibly know about smuggling or rescuing prisoners-of-war? Unless . . .
Barrett entered the room, book in hand, no doubt taking advantage of the library and content to read something other than medical books.
His friend had a thriving intellect that needed to be fed and their minds had been denied any true recreation due to neglect.
“There you are, Captain,” he announced as if locating the Northern Star.
“I should have known I’d find you here.”
“And how would you know that, pray tell?” Father asked.
Barrett appeared happy to supply the answer. “This room is the most important room at Milne Manor, I’ve been told. A place where Christmas is never delayed.” He searched the room as if examining a patient. “Do you plan to dress it? I know it would make my friend infinitely happy.”
The viscount paled, his lips forming a tighter line than any Chris had seen on his face.
He glanced away, focusing his tormented eyes on the fire blazing in the hearth, its warmth pleasantly filling the room.
“You could not have known, but I am sorry to inform you that we have not dressed this room since my son’s imprisonment and Lady Astley-Milne’s death. ”
Barrett’s expression fell. He couldn’t be blamed for not knowing the viscount’s preferences, especially when Chris had spoken of the red parlor every season and Daniel had every hope of experiencing the spectacle himself.
“I have been led to understand that Lady Astley-Milne loved this room so much,” Barrett said.
“That when the captain was born on Christmas Day, she dedicated it to him.”
“Yes,” the viscount sadly replied. “I could deny her nothing in life or in death.” He weakly pointed to the hearth.
“The yule log was always lit there, transforming this glorious room dressed to perfection, with a happier countenance that only her presence provided.” He lowered his head momentarily then lifted it and stared straight at Chris.
“After your brother’s death, she made me swear not to decorate it until you returned home. I have kept that vow.”
Another round of guilt assailed Chris. Besides bearing the burden of his mother’s death, he hadn’t been there to comfort either of his parents after Noel’s demise, or any other heartbreak or celebration.
And what of his mother, dealing with his captivity while her oldest son died? How she must have suffered.
“Mother,” he choked out. “Did she—”
“She,” his father said, “never gave up hope. Why, if it wasn’t for Emma, I don’t think she would have held on as long as she did.”
Emma. Her name, her very presence, symbolized more than love and happiness, which had been his motives for spending his life with her. She’d immersed herself into his family’s lives, offering solace when he could no longer be there. “I am grateful for her. She deserves my eternal thanks.”
His father stamped his cane. “Though she is my ward, she is like a daughter to me. And what she has done will—”
“What has she done?” The implication that Emma had done something Chris could never repay cut him to the quick.
The viscount shifted uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to speak.
Barrett supplied the news no one seemed to want to tell him. “Miss Clavering’s parents died four years ago, shortly before your mother, after a bout of pleurisy. I’ve been told it’s a miracle Emma and your father survived. Half of Hillsborough became sick. A third of those died.”
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“Unlike you, Captain, the servants speak freely in my presence.”
He’d dared to hope that Emma would wait for him, but he hadn’t expected her ambitions would mount to organizing his rescue and consoling his family.
How was that possible? How did a man repay such devotion?