Chapter 1 #2
“You always manage it before I remember I ought.”
“That is because I enjoy people more than you do.” A grin flickered across Atlas’s face, but Eric could not return it.
By the time Atlas departed, the last of the afternoon sun had disappeared behind low clouds rolling over the western hills.
Wolverton Hall settled once more into the quiet that had become its natural state. Somewhere below stairs, pots clinked faintly in the kitchens. A clock chimed the quarter hour. Beyond that, the house offered little sound at all, which suited him.
He crossed the entrance hall intending to retire early when a sharp knock echoed through the front doors.
Abigail, the housekeeper, reached the entrance before he did. She accepted a leather satchel from a mud-spattered courier, exchanged a few quiet words, then turned as Eric approached.
“A messenger has left this for you from Talbot Park, Your Grace,” she said and held out a sealed letter.
Eric felt his chest tighten unexpectedly because Edmund Talbot had been his father’s oldest friend and confidant. “Talbot Park?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Abigail,” he said almost dreamily as he took the letter from her and carried it gingerly into his study, closing the door behind him before breaking the seal.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows over the shelves, and he remained standing beside the hearth as he unfolded the pages.
The writing was less steady than he remembered.
My dear boy,
The first lines spoke of illness with remarkable honesty. The earl made no attempt to soften the truth. His physicians believed the coming months uncertain, and while country air might yet restore him, he found himself arranging affairs he had long hoped to postpone.
Eric read slowly and thoughtfully. He had always respected the earl for speaking plainly.
The next paragraph drew a deeper breath from him.
Your father and I made many promises to one another through the years. There is one I have never mentioned, believing it unnecessary while life unfolded as expected. We once hoped our children might unite our families, should affection allow it.
Eric lowered the page for a moment.
His father had never spoken of such an understanding. Perhaps he had intended to, but there had been so many conversations left unfinished.
I would never command you where marriage is concerned. Nor would I ask this if my circumstances were different. Yet I find I cannot leave my daughter without making one final appeal.
I ask, in memory of your father and in honor of the friendship that bound us for more than thirty years, that you consider offering for Adelaide.
If, after meeting her, you cannot esteem her, then let the matter rest forever. But grant an old friend that much.
Eric stared at the final lines until the words blurred, and sank into the chair before the desk, the letter still open between his hands.
He could have tolerated the solitude of Wolverton Hall for another forty years if that solitude harmed no one beyond himself. The title would pass to Atlas in due course. The estate would endure. Children would never learn what it meant to stand beside fresh graves before they had reached manhood.
It had seemed the kindest decision available, but now another duty stood before him.
He rose and crossed toward the window. Outside, dusk had swallowed the gardens. The lawns faded into shadow until only the pale ribbon of the drive remained visible between the trees.
His father had believed duty worth carrying. He had never once asked his son to choose the easier road.
Eric closed his eyes.
Would you have asked this of me?
The question lingered unanswered, but he already knew that if the late duke had stood beside him this evening, one hand resting on the mantel as he so often had, there would have been neither pressure nor command.
Only that quiet certainty his father possessed, the sort that made difficult choices seem less impossible.
Meet the girl.
His gaze drifted from the letter to the empty chair opposite his desk.
His father had occupied it often enough, boots muddy from the fields, insisting that difficult decisions usually looked less impossible once spoken aloud.
The chair had stood empty for five years.
Tonight it was impossible not to imagine someone sitting there.
After several minutes, Eric pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him. His pen hovered only briefly before touching the page.
My Lord,
Your letter has reached me safely.
It honors me beyond measure that my father should have held such hopes for our families. In respect for his memory, and for the friendship you both shared, I shall come to Talbot Park at the earliest opportunity, provided your health allows visitors.
If Lady Adelaide Talbot herself is willing to receive my acquaintance, I shall endeavor to conduct myself with all sincerity.
Whatever follows, you have my gratitude for placing your confidence in me.
Eric signed his name without hesitation and sealed the letter. He stepped into the hall moments later and found one of the footmen extinguishing lamps for the evening. “Thomas.”
The young man straightened immediately. “Your Grace?”
“This must leave before sunrise,” Eric said and placed the sealed letter into his hand. “It is to be delivered directly to Talbot Park. Change horses if necessary, but do not delay.”
Thomas took the letter from him without a second thought. “I shall see it done, Your Grace.”
Eric’s gaze lingered on the wax seal for a heartbeat. “Please ensure you do. It is addressed to the father of my future betrothed.”
The words sounded unfamiliar in the empty corridor, and Thomas’s eyes widened before he recovered himself with a respectful bow. “I wish you every happiness, Your Grace. This will be delivered promptly.”
Thomas hurried through the servants’ passage, the polished heels of his boots striking the stone before the sound faded into the depths of the house. Eric remained where he was, one hand still resting against the doorframe.
By this time tomorrow, a gentleman he had never met would be reading his acceptance, and somewhere beyond that same letter waited a lady whose face he could not yet imagine.