Chapter 18
The afternoon sun spilled softly through the tall windows of the kitchen, the scent of fresh stew mingling with the faint smell of garlic.
Benjamin sat with his sleeves rolled, a cup of black tea steaming beside him. Across from him, Mrs. Miller cut into a plum tart with practiced ease.
"You know," Benjamin said, "you should not be running this house alone from now on. Once more rooms are opened, we shall need proper staff. Hired hands, not merely you and a great deal of stubbornness."
Mrs. Miller snorted, sliding a generous slice onto his plate. "Once the whole house is finished, perhaps. Until then I am more than capable of managing on my own. Do you imagine a few more curtains and corridors will be the thing that wears me down?"
"I have seen what you can survive." He allowed himself a faint smile. "I intend to insist regardless."
"You always were a stubborn boy." She said it fondly, though there was real affection beneath the scolding. "Just like your mother."
The door swung open with a hurried creak, and Jacob rushed in, breathless, boots too large for him still catching against the flagstones.
"Your Grace." He caught the doorframe, chest heaving. "There is someone at the front gate."
Benjamin's fork stilled halfway to his mouth. "Did he give a name?"
"No, sir. Nobody knows him — not one of us has seen him before, and he did not offer to say who he was." Jacob's face had gone tight. "He is wearing a black cloak, sir. In the middle of the day. It is not right, somehow. Thomas would not let him near the gate."
Mrs. Miller set down her own fork slowly.
"A newspaperman," she said, "come to write something ugly about you for the London papers. Or worse — one of Harrington's own, sent to see the ground before anything else follows."
"It is possible." Benjamin was already rising, his chair scraping back against the stone. "Stay here."
"I will do no such thing."
"Mrs. Miller."
"I will stay in the hall, then, and not one step further, if it will settle your nerves." She rose all the same, arms folded, immovable.
Benjamin did not argue further. He crossed through the kitchen and out into the yard, where Thomas and the rest of the crew still stood their loose, unbroken line across the drive, the stranger waiting patiently a few yards beyond them.
"Easy, men." Benjamin's voice carried clear across the yard. "Let me see him properly before anyone does anything further."
Thomas gave a short nod, though the line did not fully break — only parted enough to let Benjamin through.
He came within twenty paces of the man before he could make out his face beneath the hood of the cloak — gray eyes, sharp and steady, a posture that had clearly survived more marches than most men's bodies were built to carry.
Benjamin stopped.
"Oliver?"
The hood came back completely, and the man's tired face broke into something close to a grin.
"Captain."
Benjamin did not hesitate. He closed the last of the distance in two strides and pulled him into a hard, quick embrace — the kind shared only between men who had once watched each other bleed and lived regardless.
"What the devil are you doing here?" Benjamin pulled back, gripping his shoulder. "It has been — what, a year?"
"Longer than that." Oliver's voice was steady, but pitched low. "May I have a word with you? In private."
Something in Benjamin sharpened at once, the old instinct settling over him like a second skin.
"Of course." He glanced back at the crew. "Thomas — it is well. He is known to me."
Thomas relaxed his stance, though his eyes stayed on Oliver a moment longer before he turned back to the men and waved them back to their work.
Benjamin led Oliver through the yard and in through the front door, the two of them passing Mrs. Miller in the hall — her sharp eyes taking in every inch of the stranger before Benjamin had said a single word of introduction.
The kitchen doors closed behind them with a muted click, the afternoon light falling in sharp, changed beams across the floor.
Benjamin gestured toward the armchair, but Oliver remained standing.
"They came to the camp," he began. "Two of them. Civilians, on paper — but plainly men with someone considerable standing behind them. Asked a great deal of questions."
Benjamin went still. "What did they ask?"
"Specific questions, about you." Oliver held his eyes steadily.
"They already knew that your name meant nothing on its own.
They asked after Aldric's camp directly, and whether we knew a man there matching your description who had recently purchased land in Ashcombe.
A man named Benjamin Sterling or Russell. "
Benjamin turned away, jaw tightening, pacing once across the room.
"Harrington." He said it low, almost to himself. "It has to be. No man else would trouble himself to dig up bones I have spent twenty years burying."
"I thought as much myself." Oliver's voice stayed quiet. "So did the others."
Benjamin stopped, met his old comrade's gaze fully. "Thank you for coming. You have already done more than duty required of you. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow you go back — it is not safe for you to be found here."
"With respect, Captain." Oliver's tone turned stubborn. "I am not going anywhere."
Benjamin crossed the space in two steps and gripped him by the shoulders.
"What are you saying?" His voice sharpened, edged with command. "If you do not return, you will be branded a deserter. This is not a game, Oliver."
But Oliver only offered a faint, tired smile. "Commander Aldric — General Aldric, now, if we are being proper — arranged a month's leave for me. Said I needed to recover from an injury I was not previously aware of having." He shrugged. "The paperwork has already been filed. It buys us time."
Benjamin stared at him.
"We wanted to come as a group," Oliver continued, reaching into his coat. "There was only one place to spare. We decided one was a great deal better than none."
He drew out a folded letter and held it out.
Benjamin took it, unfolded the parchment, and read. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he reached the signature at the bottom — General J. Aldric.
The note itself was brief.
Captain. Keep him with you. Those men were not ordinary, and they knew precisely who they were looking for.
Yesterday we learned you have chosen to step back into the light.
Remember — where there is light, there are always shadows close behind it.
Oliver will be your shadow, from now on. A storm is coming. Be ready.
Benjamin exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling into him.
"They came before the news of your official reappearance," Oliver said aloud. "Now they know, like everyone else. And they are about to make their move."
Benjamin looked up at Oliver.
"Very well. You stay."
The door opened just then, and Mrs. Miller came in, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. She paused at the sight of the stranger.
Benjamin turned to her, the tension still audible beneath his voice. "Mrs. Miller — this is Oliver. One of mine. He will be staying with us a while."
She looked the young man over — dusty boots, sharp eyes, the unmistakable posture of a soldier — and gave a small, considering nod.
"Soldier?"
"Yes, ma'am." Oliver inclined his head respectfully.
She pursed her lips. "Then you are family. Dinner is at seven. Miss it, and you go hungry until morning."
"Understood, ma'am."
Mrs. Miller gave Benjamin a long, measured look — one that plainly promised a further conversation later — and left the room.
Benjamin watched the doorway after her a moment, then turned back to Oliver.
"You are certain of this?" he asked. "If you stay, there is no clean turning back from it."
Oliver met his gaze without flinching. "You led us through the darkest nights we ever faced. I am only here to return the favor."
Benjamin said nothing for a long moment.
Then he set a hand on Oliver's shoulder, firm and grateful.
"Welcome to Russell Hall."
"It is good to see you home, Ben."
"Home." Benjamin let the word settle a moment before he answered. "You are right. Welcome to my home, brother. Though I cannot promise you a comfortable sofa or a proper bed — the house has not stretched that far yet. I trust you will make do."
"I have slept in far worse."
"I know." A faint smile touched his mouth. "I was there for most of it."
Something eased between them at that, an old, easy weight settling back into place after so many months apart.
"Oliver." Benjamin's tone shifted, more deliberate now. "I will be leaving for a few hours. Look after the house while I am gone. And Mrs. Miller."
Oliver nodded once, already understanding the order beneath the request.
"I do not require a bodyguard," Mrs. Miller said flatly, arms folding.
"Consider him company, then. Nothing more."
"That," she said, after a moment's consideration, "I can allow."
"I am going to bathe and make myself presentable," Benjamin said, already turning for the stairs.
Mrs. Miller's brow rose. "A bath? You had one not two hours before breakfast."
"Cleanliness," Benjamin said, smiling as he went, "is a great virtue."
And he left them there, the door swinging shut softly behind him
Outside, the wind had begun to stir through the trees, bending the branches just enough to carry the faint suggestion of storms not yet arrived.
◆◆◆
Benjamin found the forest exactly as promised — thirty minutes east of the market square, the trees older and denser than anything on either estate, sunlight coming down in broken gold shafts through the canopy.
He walked slowly, hands loose at his sides, letting himself simply notice things for once rather than assess them for threat.
He was admiring the particular way the light fell across a bed of moss when he caught the shift of a shadow behind him.
He smiled before he turned.
"I got you," Amelia said, delighted with herself, stepping out from behind a wide oak.
Benjamin spun with theatrical alarm, a hand pressed briefly to his chest. "Good heavens—"