Chapter 19 #2
With a firm nod, Mr. Kinsey went back inside to tell Leila and Adelle he was taking her home.
When he returned, he offered Sylvie his arm.
She took it and allowed him to lead the way to the ferry, get them boarded, and find a seat for the short trip to Put-In-Bay.
The ingrained urge to make polite small talk was difficult to ignore, but Sylvie sensed she wasn’t the only one who felt niceties would ring false.
Worries about what was happening with Miles entwined in her mind with gratitude for Mr. Kinsey’s attentiveness.
She’d given up on her search for her admirer as her feelings for Miles grew, but was it possible Mr. Kinsey was that man, after all?
He’d made his intentions plain that night, and he’d always been at the top of her list of suspects.
But what did it matter who her admirer was if Miles was the man she wanted? She must learn the truth, and unfortunately, according to Lucy, that search needed to begin with her mother.
It had been a long, tiring eight-day journey, but Miles was nearly home. It felt strange to refer to his family’s estate that way after going for so many years without setting foot on it. Even before he left England, it hadn’t felt like a home for quite some time. More like a prison cell.
But familiar sights, sounds, and smells brought a wave of nostalgia when Miles left the ship behind at the dock in Liverpool and made his way to the train station.
It was midmorning, so the docks bustled with fishermen bringing in their catch and delivery men taking loads of goods to shops throughout the city.
As Miles made his way through the crowded streets on foot—feeling a deep need to stretch his legs before getting on a train again—it became apparent other things had changed.
A new building here or there signified the town’s growth.
Signs hanging above some of the shops advertised businesses he didn’t remember from the last time he visited.
He hadn’t known Liverpool intimately, but the impact of time was evident.
Was anything else different about his homeland? A small part of him dared to wonder if this was an opportunity to discover that he wouldn’t still be viewed as a pariah as he had been when he left.
With an hour before his train departed, Miles ducked into a restaurant next to the station to wait in comfort and enjoy a taste of his youth—a steak pudding with thick, rich gravy.
After ordering, he unfolded a newspaper he’d bought at the dock.
But he didn’t get one word read before a voice to his left interrupted. “You new in town, young man?”
Miles looked up to see a wizened man at the table next to his leaning far too close and squinting as if trying to see Miles more clearly. “Ah, no. Returning after some years away.”
The man nodded once but didn’t stop staring at Miles. “You seem familiar. Family around here?”
With his throat constricting, Miles shook his head and swallowed hard. “Not too close. I’m headed to Wentworth.”
He held his breath as the man mulled over that information, still scrutinizing Miles.
Would recognition hit? The last time he’d been in Liverpool, stares and whispers had followed him everywhere.
Back then, his face had been widely known thanks to the flurry of reporters writing about his every move and publishing any image of him they could find or manufacture.
But the man finally shrugged and offered a crooked, gap-toothed smile. “Well, welcome home, anyway. Hope your journey is pleasant. I hear it’s nice out there.”
Miles agreed while releasing a deep breath. It seemed possible that things had changed in the years he’d been away, after all. No one gave him a second glance this time.
A pink-cheeked waitress brought Miles his food, which he devoured with the appetite of a man with a renewed outlook.
He wouldn’t be entirely at ease until he saw his mother’s condition for himself, but some of the tension that had built on the journey diminished.
After finishing his meal, he returned to the station to board his train and settled back against the plush seat, watching familiar countryside pass by outside the dust- and soot-covered windows for the next few hours.
Worries about his mother’s health and the welcome he would receive in England had plagued Miles all week while traveling, but he’d also imagined one day bringing Sylvie here.
Would she like the food, which was admittedly quite different from what she was used to?
Would she admire the landscape as he did?
Would she get along with his mother? All questions that relied on another important one—when he returned to Ohio, would she agree to be his wife?
Because Miles was in love with her and had every intention of settling the matter as soon as his mother was well.
But after that, could he bring her here as his bride without facing censure? The possibility, which had seemed absurd just days ago, now hung before him like a carrot in front of a horse. It spurred him forward with more hope than he’d had in a long time.
The train came to a stop at the small open-air platform in Wentworth late in the evening.
As he waited for the estate steward, Godfrey Brown, Miles examined his surroundings.
Unlike Liverpool, the village of Wentworth hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been gone.
He recognized all the shop signs. The church bell that tolled the hour after he’d been there for a bit sounded exactly as he remembered from his childhood.
The streets were the same compacted stone, and the simple buildings were unaltered.
But would the people be the same as well, or had time washed away the memory of his supposed transgression here as it seemed to have done farther away?
A rattle of wheels on stone alerted Miles to an approaching vehicle.
He rose from the wooden bench on the platform and saw a familiar carriage, with a homely young man sitting atop the driver’s seat.
The youth doffed his cap at Miles with a nod as he urged the horse to stop.
The carriage door creaked open, and the steward climbed out with a stiff grunt. “Good evening, my lord. Welcome home.”
Mr. Brown had helped Miles’s father run the Wentworth estate since long before Miles and his brother were born.
So when Miles decided to leave behind his inheritance, Mr. Brown had been the logical choice to take over his responsibilities and help Miles’s mother in place of an actual heir.
Time had worn on Mr. Brown, it seemed, as his narrow shoulders were hunched and his blond hair had turned nearly white.
But he still smiled with a joy that radiated from within, as he always had when Miles was young.
The young driver hopped from his seat and reached for Miles’s bag. Miles gripped the handle and shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m capable of managing that on my own. I’m not here to become the Marquess of Rockingham again.”
Mr. Brown scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, his bright countenance fading. “You mightn’t have a choice in that, I’m afraid.”
Miles’s heart clenched. But the steward had said might. It didn’t seem the worst had happened. Yet. “How is she? Please tell me honestly.”
Meeting his gaze with a steady look, Mr. Brown didn’t smile but didn’t quite frown either. “She’s not well. The doctor is concerned. But I think a visit from you will do her a world of good.”
Another pang, this one of guilt. He’d left Mother alone for so long. She’d visited him once, to attend his commencement at Cornell. But he hadn’t been back to visit her in all these years. What kind of son abandoned his mother like that, while she still grieved for her husband and other son?
As if reading his mind, Mr. Brown jerked his head toward the carriage.
“Come now, don’t feel as if you could have helped it if you’d been here.
Your mother is one of the strongest women on God’s green earth.
Until the illness, she ran the estate so well, I hardly had a job to do.
She’s missed you but is quite proud of all you’ve done since leaving.
Let’s get you to the estate and see how she improves. ”
They settled in the enclosed carriage together while the driver returned to his seat and started the horse into motion.
The roads grew more rutted as they left town, but Miles barely noticed as another swell of nostalgia washed over him.
It would be good to see Woodhouse again, the grand manor that had housed his family for generations.
But no matter how glad he was to be there for his mother or how much he hoped Mr. Brown was correct and his visit would help her recover, Miles desperately missed Sylvie.
Whether Mother recovered or not—and whatever happened to the estate in that case—his place was at Sylvie’s side, not in England.
No amount of sentimentality would change that.
But would the weight of responsibility?