Chapter 29
The morning air in Bath was sharp and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and the faint tang of horse sweat.
Edward had saddled his horse himself, a habit he kept even with stable hands at his disposal. It required concentration, and that was precisely what he needed. Attention to the reins and stirrups, to the rhythmic stomp of hooves on the gravel, left less room for wandering thoughts.
He urged the horse into a brisk trot along the winding drive, mist curling around the hedges like smoke. The rhythmic motion steadied him at first, the reins taut between his hands, the leather familiar under his fingers.
The clip-clop of hooves became a kind of drumbeat, matching the pulse that had been racing since he left London.
“You’re restless, Edward,” he muttered under his breath, the words swallowed by the wind. His breath came in short, visible bursts, misting over the rising sun. “Yes, that’s it. Always restless. No need to dwell on what cannot be fixed.”
Yet, with each turn along the gravel paths, the same thought pried its way in.
Beatrice.
Her gentle, loving care for Pip, the way her voice softened whenever she was happy, the tilt of her head when she laughed, even the soft reprimand she had once given him over an error—it all returned, unbidden.
Edward leaned forward in the saddle, urging the horse into a canter, then a gallop. The wind ripped through his coat, whipped his hair into his eyes, and he rode with a speed that left the landscape a blur. His hands, firm on the reins, trembled slightly.
Passing the small copse of trees at the edge of the estate, he pulled the reins, letting the horse slow down to a steady trot. From the top of the hill, the fields stretched wide.
He took in the green sweep of his lands, the neat hedgerows, the shape of the ornamental lake, and the mist rising from its surface.
He could have been alone in the world, and he would have still felt it—an absence sharper than any chill. Beatrice was not beside him, not laughing at his absurd comments on the steward’s errors, not correcting him gently like she always did.
A sharp whinny pulled him back to the present. One of the younger horses in the paddock tossed its head, startled by his approach. Edward slowed, guiding his horse closer, shaking out the tension that had coiled in his shoulders.
“Distraction,” he muttered. “I need motion. I need… nothing but this.”
His eyes lingered too long on the stone bridge over the lake. He imagined Beatrice there, perched lightly on the rail, book in hand, golden hair damp from the rain. His chest tightened, and he had to grip the reins harder.
The ride back was quieter, slower. The horse’s breathing mingled with the early morning mist.
Edward’s hands were damp, his coat slick at the shoulders, but his mind had cleared in part. The urgency of the ride, the physical effort, had burned away the first layer of restless obsession. Yet the ache remained—the ache of absence, of longing.
Back at the stables, he dismounted carefully, his hands gripping the pommel until Sir Galahad’s legs were steady beneath him. A groom approached with a brush and a basin of warm water, bowing slightly.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, his eyes catching Edward’s for a fraction of a second. “Shall I—”
“No,” Edward interrupted, his voice sharper than he had intended.
He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from exertion, and glanced toward the house. The windows were empty. The air held nothing but his own reflection in the polished glass.
“Perhaps a carriage ride,” he muttered to himself, pacing briefly. “Perhaps… London.”
After he refreshed himself and changed into clean clothes, he tried to get some work done. After one cup of tea, he grew listless. He reached automatically for the second cup.
The tray was already set—china warmed, tea poured to the proper depth, steam rising in a thin, disciplined line—but his hand paused mid-air, his fingers hovering over porcelain that had no purpose now.
He withdrew it with a frown and pushed the cup back into alignment, as though correcting the servant’s mistake rather than his own.
“There will be no need,” he said quietly.
The footman inclined his head, picked up the tray and withdrew. The door closed with a precise click.
Edward remained standing a moment longer than necessary, his eyes fixed on the tray. The habit had formed quickly. Too quickly. It unsettled him.
He carried the teacup to his desk and sat, opening the ledger he had already reviewed once that morning. The figures were correct, painfully so. Every account reconciled down to the last farthing.
He checked them again. And again.
“Still solvent,” he murmured dryly. “Remarkable.”
Nothing changed.
Wrexford Hall ran as it always had—efficiently, seamlessly, without drama. Stewards responded promptly. Grounds were kept. Repairs were anticipated rather than demanded.
The estate did not require him to be sharper, faster, or more decisive. Which left him with attention to spare.
He closed the ledger and set it aside, his fingers lingering on the cover as though expecting resistance. There was none.
London had been loud. Demanding. Full of interruption and necessity.
Here, there was nothing to interrupt him.
He stood up and crossed the room, pausing by the window that overlooked the lower gardens. The gravel paths lay undisturbed, dew still clinging to the hedges. The air was clean, the morning properly begun.
The scene ought to have steadied him. Instead, he found himself listening. For footsteps that did not belong to the house. For a presence he had not expected to miss until it was no longer available to him.
He exhaled through his nose, slightly irritated at the thought.
Five days, and he had already chided the steward twice for an error that had not been repeated. He had taken the longer route out of habit and only realized why when he reached the bend and found himself alone.
There was no disorder here. No chaos to manage. No one to accommodate but himself.
And that, he suspected, was the trouble.
A clerk waited in the antechamber, papers in hand, his expression earnest. Edward took them, listened as the man explained an adjustment to the tenant schedule, and nodded at the right intervals.
All the while, his mind snagged on an absurd detail. Beatrice would have asked how the tenants felt about the change before approving it. Not sentimentally, but practically. She had a way of noticing how policy landed.
He dismissed the clerk and returned to the desk, straightening the papers he had already straightened, and reached for his tea at last. It had cooled slightly. He drank it anyway, because wasting it would be inefficient, and because it gave his hands something to do.
He had arrived in Bath determined not to think. He had succeeded only in thinking better—more carefully, more thoroughly—until there was no illusion to hide behind.
Beatrice had not written.
That, too, was nothing. Or it should have been.
He told himself her silence meant ease. Relief. That distance suited her as well as it suited him. He told himself that whatever had once existed between them had been a circumstance mistaken for sentiment.
And yet he found himself marking time by absence.
A knock sounded at the door before he could pursue the thought further. Sebastian had arrived.
Edward heard him before he saw him with his boots on stone, a voice in the courtyard already mid-complaint.
“I’m saying, if you insist on living like a penitent monk, you might at least offer wine strong enough to justify your choice.”
Edward did not look up from the papers on his desk. “You’re early.”
Sebastian leaned against the doorframe, his travel coat still on, his hair disheveled from the road, a grin plastered on his lips. “You say that as though you weren’t expecting me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“And yet you don’t look surprised.”
Edward closed the ledger. “You’re predictable.”
Sebastian gasped theatrically. “You wound me. I travel halfway across the country to check whether you’ve grown antlers in solitude, and this is your welcome?”
“You’re welcome to leave,” Edward said mildly.
“Five days,” Sebastian continued. “I’d begun to worry you’d barricaded yourself in with the ledgers and declared war on joy.”
Edward folded his hands behind his back. “Margaret must be desperate.”
“After speaking to Cecily and learning that you came to Bath, Margaret said I was to stay a few days,” Sebastian quipped. “Her exact words were, Go and see if he’s alive. And if he isn’t, remind him that he is.”
Edward snorted despite himself. “She’s improved.”
“So have you,” Sebastian said lightly. He stepped fully into the room, surveying it with interest. “You’ve rearranged the furniture. Again.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have. The chair used to face the window. Now it faces the desk.” He paused. “A defensive position.”
Edward’s mouth twitched. “You read too much into it.”
“I read people,” Sebastian emphasized. “And you look like a man who’s been arguing with himself and losing.”
Edward rose and poured two glasses of wine. “Sit down before you exhaust yourself.”
Sebastian laughed, dropping into the chair opposite the desk.
The wrong chair, Edward noted immediately. The one that never stayed occupied for long.
Sebastian accepted a glass with a satisfied hum. “Ah, that’s better. I knew you wouldn’t starve me.”
“Well?” Edward prompted. “How’s London?”
Sebastian took a measured sip. “Still standing.”
“And the scandal?”
Sebastian laughed. “Oh, completely forgotten. A whisper now. Something the matrons pretend not to remember and the men pretend they never repeated.” He lifted his glass. “Your name, I’m pleased to report, remains entirely respectable.”
Edward did not return the toast.
Sebastian noticed. He always did.
“That’s good news,” he pressed. “You should be pleased.”
Edward set his glass down and walked towards the window. “I’m not sure it matters.”
Sebastian blinked. “It doesn’t matter?”
“No.”
A pause. A longer one.