Chapter 3 #2
She chuckled, forever in awe of the sweetness of her son.
It was hard to believe, at times, that his father was such an imposing, intimidating, stern figure, at least outside of that strange week.
Then again, no one started out like that.
Perhaps, in childhood, Malcolm had been a sweet little thing, too.
“Your husband will have to return at some point,” Evelyn said, drawing a sharp glance from Octavia.
“Why would you say that?” Octavia replied, her tone harsh.
Evelyn sighed. “Because that dear boy will need his father’s influence. If nothing else, he will need his father to teach him how to be a duke someday.” She put up her hands in defense. “I am not saying it will have to be anytime soon, but he should know of his future duties.”
“My brother can do that,” Octavia said, eyes narrowed.
Evelyn had already made many subtle comments that Simon was perhaps too soft, too sweet, and might benefit from not being forever at his mother’s side. Particularly before he eventually went away to Eton or Harrow, as most of the sons of society’s peers did.
It was a point of tension between the two sisters-in-law, especially when Octavia had mentioned that she might not send Simon away to school at all.
“Dearest Octavia, Hugo does not know the details of your husband’s estate,” Evelyn pointed out cautiously. “It really should be something that Malcolm oversees.”
“Well, as you said,” Octavia remarked crisply, cradling Simon’s head to her shoulder, “it is not something I need to think about at present. My son is not even five. The only thing he would do with a ledger or document is draw on it.”
“I know, but—” Evelyn’s response was cut graciously short by the abrupt appearance of Mr. Lincoln, the butler of Huntfield House.
In the five years that Octavia had been in situ at the lovely manor, she had never seen the wiry man run. But he was running now, red-faced, his well-oiled grey hair all askew, bounding down the steps to the edge of the gardens where the ladies and children were gathered.
“Your Grace!” he called, coming to a breathless halt, his hands on his sides. “Your Grace, I have… an urgent… message for you. Just arrived.”
Octavia instinctively held her son closer. “What message?”
“It is the… Duke, Your Grace,” the butler wheezed. “The Duke of Highcastle is on his way here.”
“What?” Octavia rasped, her eyes wide.
“He will be… here by tonight,” the butler blurted out, as Octavia’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach.
After five years, it seemed that Malcolm had finally decided to check in on his wife… and the son he had never met.
Octavia had sent her friends and their children home within an hour of receiving the news. Since then, she had not been able to settle, her heart lurching at every sound, constantly pausing to stare out of the windows for Malcolm’s arrival.
She had put Simon to bed a while ago, giving strict instructions to the nursery maid that the door was to remain locked unless she gave permission otherwise.
Why is he coming here? Octavia asked herself for the thousandth time, as she paced the drawing room floor. He said nothing about wanting to visit in his last letter to me.
That had been some months ago: another brief and emotionless note thanking her for her previous information about Simon’s welfare. Malcolm had asked nothing and shown no particular interest in meeting his son, so why had he changed his mind?
Just then, she heard hoofbeats approaching fast.
With her heart in her throat, she went to the window and looked out. In the dying light of sunset, she saw him: a fearsome figure upon the back of an equally fearsome, black war horse, galloping straight toward the manor.
You knew this day might come, she told herself, gathering her courage. Then again, he alluded to the fact that you would never have to see him again.
She had not forgotten the slight change to the terms of their deal.
She had been prepared, back then, to welcome him once or twice a year.
It was him who had rejected the notion. In truth, she had been somewhat dismayed by his decision after Simon was born, for she had hoped for Simon to have many siblings.
Hurrying to the settee, she sat down and reached for a cup of tea that had long cooled. Attempting to look nonchalant, she sipped the cold tea and waited, as her heart clattered at the speed of that black horse, her nerves jangling.
She could barely draw breath as she heard the front door open and close, and listened to the thud of footfalls getting closer.
I remember that sound… It was the same heavy beat that had crossed the floor of her chambers in Scotland.
Nausea rose up from her stomach as she watched the door handle turn.
Then, there he was, striding into the drawing room, windswept and rugged and fiercely handsome. As tall as she remembered, his physical prowess unaltered by the years since she had last set eyes on him.
Yet, there was one vast difference. A difference so jarring that she had to blink to be certain she was seeing things correctly: Malcolm was smiling at her.
And not just a small smirk or a forced smile, but a broad grin that stretched from ear to ear, his green eyes bright with a joy she had not thought him capable of feeling.
Indeed, she had not thought him capable of smiling in any capacity, the sight of it rendering her speechless. All those years ago, she had wondered if he might look even more handsome if he were to smile, and now she had her answer… as baffling and astonishing as it was.
He was breathtaking.
And he was coming toward her at an alarming pace. She did not realize quite how fast until he was right there before her, stooping to wrap his arms around her, pulling her to her feet as he enveloped her in a fierce embrace.
Panicking slightly and quite unable to breathe, she pushed hard on his chest.
His grip relaxed, and he frowned down at her, not in anger but in obvious confusion. He even sounded a little hurt as he asked, “Aren’t ye going to greet me, my love?”