Chapter Thirty-one
Angus barely registered Southerby Manor coming into view, his mind churning with equal measures of hate and fear.
The shock of seeing his father’s image — smiling, alive, happy — had struck like a blow to the gut.
Never had he known of the painting’s existence, as, if he had, he would have destroyed it years ago.
Yet, for all the hate and anguish it had stirred in him, it had served as a timely reminder.
And for that alone, he was grateful. For Sylvie’s sake as much as his own.
However much he told himself he’d be glad to be rid of her, she had, in the briefest space of time, become part of his everyday.
Yes, she exasperated him. Her refusal to accept their marriage for what it was, her constant chatter, those absurd romantic notions.
But her laughter and unwavering cheerfulness brightened his days.
Even her preposterous fascinations — fist fighting, swordplay, walking the plank for heaven’s sake — had begun to amuse him.
And then there was her openness, her unguarded tongue, even her bloody, ridiculous cursing had started to grow on him.
Like a tumour, he thought grimly, that needed to be cut away before it took hold.
Seeing that painting had wrenched him back to reality, chilling him to his very bones, reminding him what he was. He’d let his guard down. Allowed a slip of a girl to make him forget what lurked in the dark corners of his soul. Let fondness creep where it had no right to live.
India, his faithful stallion, ambled to a halt, and Angus looked up and blinked, startled to find himself already outside Southerby Manor. A stable boy was running towards him, and the main door to the manor swung open in welcome.
“G’day, milord,” panted the young lad as he reached them. “G’day, India,” he added, smiling broadly as he stretched up and scratched behind the stallion’s ears.
“You remember the name of my horse?”
“Course, milord. He’s always been one of my favourites, such a gentle giant, aren’t you handsome lad? Shall I be bedding him down for the night, milord?”
Westland dismounted with a grace that belied his mood and gave his old friend a fond pat. “Yes. We shall be staying a few days.”
“Right you are, milord. I’ll take right good care of him.”
“It’s Fred, isn’t it?”
Surprise and delight shone on the boy’s face, “Aye, aye tis, milord.”
“Thank you, Fred.”
“My pleasure, milord, my pleasure.”
With a slight smile, Angus turned and walked towards the house.
Nestled comfortably in the lush green valley, Southerby Manor stood serene in the late afternoon light.
Its elegant symmetry and rich, warm sandstone walls normally stirred a quiet sense of comfort and belonging, but today, it was merely a refuge for his dark thoughts.
As he mounted the steps, the long shadows from the hills crept towards him, and he quickened his pace as though his own darkness followed close behind, inescapable and waiting to swallow him whole.
He gave the waiting butler a nod of greeting.
“Good afternoon, Lord Westland, welcome back. And may I offer you my congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you, Peters. And apologies for not sending word ahead of my arrival.”
“Not at all, my lord. I’ll have your rooms prepared immediately. You’ll be staying a few nights?”
“Yes, three or four.”
“Very good, my lord. Will you be requiring a valet?”
“No. Thank you. Eddie should be arriving shortly, and tell Cook not to go to any trouble. I shall take a supper tray in the study.”
“Very good, my lord.”