Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Adense fog hung over the wilds of the Highcastle estate, blotting out the mountains, snaking through the forests, the mist creeping right up to the grey stone of the castle walls.
From his study, where a roaring fire crackled in the grate as if it were winter instead of the end of summer, Malcolm watched the swirling fog. Ledgers and documents sat stacked on his desk, but he did not have the concentration he once had, his mind wandering so easily these days.
It had been two weeks since he departed Huntfield. Two weeks since he had last seen his wife and son, yet they were in his thoughts from morning until night.
I should’ve held her one last time, at least.
He shook his head. No, she would not have wanted that. He had lost any privilege he might have had to touch her, to embrace her, to kiss her, and that mistake could not be undone.
A knock at the door brought him out of his daze.
“Come in,” he said, sitting up straight.
The housekeeper bustled in. “There’s a visitor for ye, Yer Grace.”
“A visitor?” Malcolm perked up. “Who is it?”
“That English duke who comes huntin’ for stags here,” the housekeeper replied, not bothering to hide the note of disdain.
She was not fond of the English.
“Ah…” Malcolm swallowed down the sting of disappointment. “Take him into the drawing room. I’ll be along shortly.”
“He’s already there, Yer Grace, making himself at home,” the housekeeper mumbled, as she turned to leave.
Of course it’s nae Octavia. Why would it be? Malcolm chided himself in the wake of the old woman’s departure.
He doubted he would have been pleased if it was Octavia, for the journey to Highcastle was long and arduous, and not the sort of journey a woman, a duchess, should be making.
Taking a deep breath, Malcolm got up from the desk and headed out to greet his friend, somewhat puzzled by the man’s arrival. It was not yet time for the stag hunting season, and the housekeeper had made no mention of Anthony arriving with friends, which she assuredly would have done.
As expected, he found Anthony in the drawing room, sitting upon the settee with an air of familiarity.
The man smiled as Malcolm entered. “I see your housekeeper still has not warmed to me.”
“Was she rude?” Malcolm asked, though he could not find it in him to smile.
“Oh, terribly. But I do not mind. There is a certain charm to it that I almost look forward to now,” Anthony replied, grinning. “I asked if I might have some tea, and you would have thought I had asked for her firstborn.”
Managing a halfhearted laugh, Malcolm sat down opposite. “What brings ye all this way? I wasn’t expecting ye until September.”
“Can a gentleman not simply come and visit his friend?” Anthony said, all innocence.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Nae when this is usually yer prime hunting season in society, drifting from manor to manor, garden party to ball, making a nuisance of yerself.”
Chuckling, Anthony clasped a dramatic hand to his chest. “You do not think a gentleman can change his ways? Perhaps, I have decided to be a good boy this summer season.”
“Aye, and I saw a unicorn right there in the forest this morning,” Malcolm said dryly.
“You have caught me.” Anthony put his hands up in mock surrender. “I was on my way to attend a house party in Northumberland when I had a sudden compulsion to keep riding toward Highcastle. It was only the Earl of Sedburgh’s party, and they are notoriously dull.”
Warily, Malcolm eyed his friend. “And what, pray tell, compelled ye to keep riding? Dull or nae, I doubt ye would have struggled to find something to amuse ye.”
Anthony’s ordinarily jovial face turned rather serious, a weary sigh puffing out of his lungs. “It is my worry for you, old boy.”
“Worry?” Malcolm snorted. “What on earth would ye be worrying about me for? My memories came back. I don’t have headaches anymore. I have suffered nay ill effects from being knocked on the head.”
“I am worried that you have made the wrong choice by returning here to your… hermitage,” Anthony said, a line appearing between his eyebrows.
“It does not do a man any good to be in such isolation. And, my dear friend, I think you were comfortable at Huntfield. Dare I say ‘happy.’ You were certainly less gloomy than I have seen you in all the years I have known you.”
Agitated by the mere mention of Huntfield, Malcolm stood sharply and walked to the drawing room window, where he gazed out at the pressing fog and wondered what might be out there in the mist.
“Ye were not at Huntfield with me,” he said tersely. “And if ye think I was in ‘happy’ spirits when I came to see ye in London, then I wonder at yer understanding of the word.”
Anthony shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“It was your manner, Malcolm. It was your demeanor. It was… different. And when I asked if your stay at Huntfield had been pleasant, you could not answer me, almost as if you did not dare to admit that it had been pleasant. All of your concerns were for Octavia and not wanting to take up more of her time, but I could see that you would have liked to take up all of her time if you thought it was a possibility.”
“Ye’re making assumptions without a jot of evidence,” Malcolm replied angrily, not least because his friend had, in fact, seen right through him.
“Can you tell me, right now, that you do not miss your wife and son?”
Something flinched in Malcolm’s chest. “I can tell ye that they will both be better off without me.”
It was the very notion that had stopped him, every morning, from saddling Rogue and riding right back to the south of England.
All he had to do was think of the hurt upon Octavia’s face when she had realized he had omitted the truth, or the fear upon Simon’s face when Malcolm had shouted at him.
Not to mention the faint red mark on the boy’s neck, where Malcolm had grabbed Simon’s collar too roughly, oblivious to his own strength.
I might nae be as cruel as my father, but I have the potential to hurt them all the same.
“I saw her, you know,” Anthony said, startling Malcolm.
“What?”
“The Duke and Duchess of Alderwick were having a summer dinner party,” Anthony explained. “I happened to be near Bath, and a friend of mine was attending, so I went. I saw her. Your wife.”
He did not elaborate, and Malcolm sensed it was deliberate. Anthony wanted him to ask for more information, a test to see just how much Malcolm truly cared.
Malcolm tried not to bite, fixing his gaze on the hazy shape of a statue that kept phasing in and out of the fog, but it was impossible. His head was abuzz with curiosity, jabbing at him like a swarm of wasps, until he would surely go mad if he did not hear more.
“How was she?” he asked, grimacing.
“Miserable,” Anthony said, no hint of triumph in his voice, just sadness.
“I have not had the pleasure of dining with her before, but I could tell it was not usual. The Duchess of Alderwick was particularly concerned for her and, in the end, took her out into the gardens. When they came back, it was clear that your wife had been crying.”
What? Nay… Nay, that isn’t how this was supposed to be.
His absence was not meant to make Octavia more distressed. Surely, Anthony was mistaken. Maybe, Octavia had been upset about something else, and it was simply a coincidence.
“I have hurt her enough, Anthony,” Malcolm said, his tone cold. “Whatever ye witnessed, it can’t be because of me. She doesn’t want to see me, doesn’t want to speak to me. I betrayed her trust and, once gone, I believe it’s gone for good.”
“Is that what she said to you?”
Malcolm hesitated. “Nae directly, but anecdotally. She doesn’t trust men, and I let her believe she could trust me, only to prove that she should nae have done.”
“What happened?” Anthony urged. “Help me to understand.”
Closing his eyes and dropping his chin to his chest, Malcolm explained everything that had taken place at Evelyn and Hugo’s residence, and the unpleasantness that had followed.
“Sounds to me like you saved the boy, and I have no doubt that your wife would forgive you if you just—” Anthony’s unwelcome sentiments were interrupted by the housekeeper, barging in with a rattling tray of tea and cakes.
“Ye’ve another visitor, Yer Grace,” she said, as she all but slammed the tray down in front of Anthony, who jumped in alarm. A slight smirk lifted the old woman’s lips.
Malcolm, eager for a diversion, turned to the housekeeper. “Who is it?”
“That wee laddie ye rescued,” she replied. “He’s waitin’ at the kitchen door. Doesnae look too good, poor thing.”
He glanced at Anthony. “If ye’ll excuse me.”
Leaving before his friend could argue or say anything more about how Octavia would just ‘forgive and forget’ though he knew it was not true, Malcolm marched straight toward the kitchens.
There, seated on a milking stool just beyond the threshold, picking at a bread roll though his collarbones were showing and his face was gaunt, was the boy that had inadvertently caused all of Malcolm’s troubles.
“Quinn, isn’t it?” Malcolm said, approaching.
The boy looked up, his eyes bloodshot as if he had not slept in days. He stood quickly and dipped his head in a low bow. “I’m sorry to intrude on ye, Yer Grace. I couldnae think of anywhere else to go.”
“Are ye in some trouble, lad?” Malcolm asked.
Quinn’s throat bobbed, and when he spoke, his voice carried the texture of pain. “I daenae ken what to do, Yer Grace.”
“What do ye mean?”
“It’s me father, Yer Grace. He’s… left us.
Nae that he did much to aid us in the first place,” the boy muttered.
“Nay one will give me work so I can raise me brothers. They think I’m a bad seed, Yer Grace, because me father was a wretch.
I cannae feed ‘em, and… I didnae ken where else to go but here, to beg ye for some work. I ken ye already saved me once, Yer Grace, but might ye help me again?”