Chapter Eight
They sped out of London as true daylight broke, alone. She’d announced that they did not need their personal servants. She very much wanted to be alone with him, and it wasn’t for lustful reasons. She hungered to know him better.
“You never really explained how you joined the army,” she said as they passed through Camberwell Toll Gate. “Didn’t your parents object?”
“Somewhat. I think they recognized the madman in me, though.”
“You’re not mad.”
He smiled. “I feed off excitement as a vampire feeds off blood,” he said again, making her instantly hot and needy. The glint in his eyes sent off warning signals, but it was so much part of him that she rejoiced.
“I can’t cure you,” she said calmly.
“I don’t want to be cured. I think you’re something of a madwoman yourself.”
Oh no. She was not going to talk about sex in broad daylight. “So your parents let you go.”
His smile acknowledged her retreat. “Bought me a commission in the regiment of my choice. Waved me farewell.” The smile faded. “And I more or less forgot about them.”
He leaned back into his corner and stared into nothing. “It was all so exciting, so new. New friends, new places, new challenges. Then when it ceased to be new, ceased to be pleasant, it had swallowed me whole. I always assumed they’d be there, frozen like waxworks, when I was ready to return.”
Maria inhaled a careful breath, thinking carefully about what to say. “Did you never return home?”
“Not in the last five years. I could have. I should have . . .”
“Your family understood, I’m sure. They must have been proud of you. And later, their spirits guided you to safety.”
He turned sharply at that. “Pap. Good men with adoring families died all the time.”
Shame flooded her for speaking such an empty platitude, but all she could think to say was another. “They must want you to be happy.”
“I am attempting to live, and live well.”
It was like trying to read a foreign script. “Why is it so hard, Van? Do you not want a good life?”
“Do I deserve one? For some reason you see me as something worth saving. I’m not so sure.” But then he turned to look out of the window, and she knew he wanted to be left in peace.
She granted him that, for now. She felt as if she were cracking open the cage of a seething demon, here in a confined space. She remembered, an eon ago, feeling inadequate and unprepared. Back then, she’d had no idea of the true challenge. Back then, however, she hadn’t cared as she cared now.
After the first change of horses, she broke the silence. “Tell me about getting a tattoo.”
His brows rose, but he answered. “It hurts.”
“I suppose it must. Does it take a long time?”
“Ours did.”
“Do you ever regret having a devil engraved on your chest?”
It was meant to be a light question, but he said, “I have wondered if I was inviting a dark fate.”
“That’s not possible!”
“It’s surprising what’s possible.”
“Did your friends’ designs have any mysterious power?”
“Hawk was always hawkish, but he’s become more so. Con . . . It was strange that he chose a dragon. I’ve never been sure what it meant to him.”
“A taste for sacrificial virgins?” she suggested.
He laughed, fully, eyes bright. “I have no idea. We’ve been out of touch too long.”
She risked a probing question. “I gather he came home after Waterloo. Why haven’t you seen him?”
That killed the laughter, but he shrugged. “I came home in January, and he was hunting in the Shires. When I visited Steynings he wasn’t in the area.”
“You could have written, arranged a meeting.”
“Perhaps I didn’t want him involved in my mess.”
That made her heart ache, but it was hopeful that he was speaking of these things. Perhaps the physical act of moving toward home was moving his mind. Had their passionate night had any part in this? She’d like to think so.
Over the hours they chatted about childhood, and families—but only the sunnier aspects—and about the easier parts of their adult lives. It was clear that his childhood had been happy, his family loved, and that one of his greatest problems since returning to England might have been loneliness.
At the fourth change she suggested that they stop for refreshments, but he looked around almost like a dog sniffing the air, and said, “No. Not long now.”
She’d been noting the mileposts to Brighton, forgetting that his home was not in the town. They were six miles away and must be close to Steynings.
He spoke to the postboys, giving instructions, and not far from the inn they took a side road. She read the signpost. Mayfield, Barkholme, and Hawk in the Vale.
“Hawk in the Vale?” she guessed.
“That’s the nearest village, yes. It’s pronounced Hawk’nvale.”
“Like your friend’s name.”
“Almost. The family’s been there about as long as the village.”
He was looking out of the window, but it was no longer a means to escape conversation. She knew he was seeking signs of home. They reached the top of a rise, and he pointed to the left across rolling hills to a white house on a hillside. “That’s Steynings.”
She relaxed. Perhaps he’d just needed to come here to embrace his home and his purpose. Perhaps their talk along the way had helped as well, and their night of passion. Whatever had worked the miracle, she sensed that he was finally, truly, coming home.
Her face suddenly ached with unshed tears, but she made herself be happy. Soon her task would be over, and she could go on with her life with an easy conscience.
“How long until we get there?” she asked.
“An hour, likely. It’s not far, but we’re off the good roads.”
“It’s a handsome house.”
The house had disappeared behind trees now, and he turned to her. “Built new by my Dutch ancestor who came across with William of Orange and married into the English. Then fancied up in the Palladian style by my grandfather.” He flashed her a slight smile. “Around here, we’re the nouveau riche.”
“The Hawkinville name was in the Domesday Book, I assume.”
“Lord yes.”
“And Lord Wyvern?”
“That title’s only a couple of hundred years old, and it belongs to Devon, not Sussex. But the Somerfords have been here for five hundred years or so. Typical English blue blood. Saxon, Norman, Dane, and a bit of everything else that’s come by in the last thousand years. Like the Dunpott-Ffyfes.”
“True.”
They shared a smile that might be the most honest one ever.
Eventually the coach slowed to turn into a village. “Hawk’nvale,” he said with soft satisfaction.
It lay in a gentle valley, with a broken row of old cottages set along the river. Each had a narrow garden running down to the water. That style marked a truly ancient settlement dating back to the times when rivers were more important than roads.
The large church set on a rise across the village green had a square Anglo-Saxon tower that marked it as at least eight hundred years old. To either side, like curved arms, lay newer buildings, so that the whole village embraced the green.
Surely it stood ready to embrace a returning son.
They drew up on the modern side of the village, in front of the stuccoed Peregrine Inn and climbed down.
“This is New Hawk,” Van said, looking around. “Down by the river is Old Hawk.”
“Where does Major Hawkinville live?”
“Wherever he puts his hat. But his father’s house is in Old Hawk, of course. The walled place with the tower inside.”
It was so much part of the older section of the village that her eye had ignored it. Now she saw a walled conglomeration of buildings surely going back in parts to the days of the ancient church. “Ancient, but not handsome,” she remembered.
“Did it actually hold against the Normans?” she asked in fascination.
“The wall’s not that old, but the tower probably saw William the Conqueror go past. It’s a fascinating old place, but getting impossible to live in comfortably.”
A tall, cheerful man strode out of the main doors to greet them. He seemed glowingly happy to see Van. Van, smiling, introduced him as Smithers, the innkeeper.
The healing was happening, she was sure.
Mr. Smithers regaled her with stories of the Young Georges’ impish youth as he led her to her room. It proved to be as up to date as her own at home. A maid brought water and she freshened herself. When she went down, she was directed to a private parlor where Van had arranged a meal.
She was glad of it, but would have been as happy to go directly to his home. To complete this healing journey. He wasn’t in the room yet, so she looked out of the window at the green, watching people cross, sometimes stop to chat. This had the feel of a good place.
She heard laughter, and returned to the door of the parlor to look out. Van stood in the middle of a group of men of all ages and types, a few maidservants hovering as well. It was clear they all were delighted to see him home again, and were at ease with him. He looked more relaxed than ever.
And younger. Much younger.
He was home.
She’d done her job.
All that remained now was to set him free.
After the meal they hired the inn’s gig and drove to Steynings Park. Though she was sure he could manage a gig, he insisted that she drive.
The neglect soon became obvious. The road worsened, the hedges were untrimmed, the ditches at the sides of the road appeared clogged. All the kinds of things that didn’t get done without someone in charge.
“Have you not been here at all?” she asked.
“Once. There was nothing I could do.”
She could have pursued that, but let it go.
When they came to the walls of the estate it was as well the iron gates stood open because the gatekeeper’s cottage was deserted. From a slight sag, she suspected the gates couldn’t be moved without a mighty struggle.
“That isn’t a recent problem,” he said as if she’d remarked on it. “My father felt it was unseemly to have closed gates, as if the local people weren’t welcome.”
“I like that.”
“He was a very likable man. Very generous and trusting.”
And thus used by Maurice. Thank heavens Van didn’t hold that against her.