She smiled. “We shall see about that.”
Chapter Four
Charles rose early the next morning, well before the sun had risen and the household had come to life. Lighting a lantern, he donned his clothes, collected a warm coat, and made his way downstairs for a quick cup of tea before heading out to the stables.
Flurry, Twig, and Ignatius stirred from the hearthrug to accompany him. Their nails clicked softly as they crossed the brick-and-mortar stable yard in Charles’s wake.
The wind bit at his face. He paid it no heed. He was accustomed to rising before dawn, regardless of the weather. It was a time of rare peace and quiet. One he’d always relished, whether far out at sea or camped on the fringes of some remote battlefield.
As a boy he’d often awakened before sunrise to gallop his stallion, Nero, through the rolling mist that blanketed the grounds of the estate. It was Nero that Charles had now come to see.
He found the old dark bay stallion much as he’d left him, safe and snug in the warmth of the stable. He stood in a loose box not far from the ones that held the riding horses belonging to Charles’s parents and sister.
Nero was the son of Charles’s father’s late and much-mourned stallion, Hyperion. Large, hot-tempered, and mercurial, Nero had once been something of a handful.
At the ripe old age of two and twenty, he was all but retired now. A well-deserved retirement. He’d been a faithful mount in his time and an equally faithful friend. Catching sight of Charles, he swung his head over the door of the loose box, giving a low whicker of greeting.
Charles crossed the hay-strewn floor of the stable. “Nero. You old devil.” He stroked the stallion’s muscular neck. “You haven’t forgotten me, have you?”
Nero raised his head to Charles’s face in answer. He lipped at Charles’s cheek, his breath warm and his whiskery black muzzle soft as pressed velvet.
There were still a few remnants of hay in the stallion’s manger, but in the loose box behind him, his water pail lay on its side. He must have kicked it over in the night.
Charles immediately entered the box to retrieve it. A horse couldn’t be without water in weather like this, not for any length of time. It was the sort of thing that could lead to colic.
He carried the empty pail out to the pump in the yard. The dogs trotted with him, interested in his every movement. So interested that, as Charles worked the pump handle, Flurry jumped up against the half-filled pail, tipping it with his paws. Icy cold water spilled straight down the front of Charles’s shirt and trousers.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Bloody hell.” His shirt and coat were soaked through. “Blast it, Flurry.” He shot a reproving look at the setter. “Have you lost all sense of decorum in my absence?”
An amused chuckle sounded behind him.
Charles turned sharply to find his father standing in the hazy glow of the lantern.
Arthur was bundled against the cold, his weight leaning heavily on his cane. A wry smile curved his mouth as he took in the state of his son’s sopping clothing. “Miss the sea that much already, do you?”
Charles’s scowl transformed into a swift grin. Righting the pail, he resumed pumping water into it. “Did my letters give you the impression that I was enamored of the sea?”
“There weren’t many letters to speak of this time around.”
Charles’s grin faltered at the subtle rebuke. “I hadn’t much time to write on the Skylark. Even less on the Intrepid. When I did, there wasn’t a great deal to write about.”
“Nothing you could share, presumably.”
“Precious little,” Charles said. His last visit home had coincided with the outbreak of war in Syria. It was that which had taken him back to sea, despite his family’s strenuous objections. They’d wanted him to resign his commission. Instead, he’d returned to his ship early, determined to be part of the fight, even at the risk of his own life.
He finished filling the pail. Water sloshed over the rim of it as he carried it back to the stable.
His father walked alongside him, holding the lantern aloft. He waited in silence while Charles deposited the pail inside Nero’s loose box.
Bestowing a final pat on the stallion’s neck, Charles withdrew, latching the door securely shut behind him. A shiver coursed through him. Winter in the West Country was no place to be in wet clothing. Not on a frosty morning such as this.
“Come,” Arthur said. “We’d best go inside before you catch your death. We can light a fire in the kitchen. Get some more tea into you.”
Charles shot him an alert glance. “How did you—”
“Because your character hasn’t altered as much as you may think.” Arthur’s cane clacked on the bricks as they navigated their way back to the house. “You’re still the same restless boy who was up before dawn, sneaking cups of tea in the kitchen before slipping away to gallop your horse over the moors. The same boy who used to worry his mother sick.”
Charles’s conscience twinged. “I never meant to worry her. Not then. Not now.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that you have worried her.” There was no overt censure in his father’s words, but they were nevertheless a reprimand. “We neither of us wanted our only son to go off and get himself killed. A not unreasonable desire, you’ll agree.”
Charles opened the back door to the house. Taking charge of the lantern, he waited for his father and the dogs to precede him into the kitchen. “I’m here now. I’ve not returned any worse than when I left.”
“Better than when you left, I’d say.” Arthur glanced back at him. “Your prize money is substantial.”
Charles had accumulated his fair share. Forty thousand pounds at last count. All sailors received a portion of the spoils from enemy ships they captured, and Charles had assisted in capturing more than most. Indeed, his tenure, first on the HMS Skylark and then as first lieutenant of the HMS Intrepid, had been extraordinarily lucrative.
He placed the lantern on the mantel. Crouching down, he lit a fire in the hearth. “It’s sitting in the bank at present. I’ve not touched it yet.”
Two chairs were arranged in front of the kitchen fireplace. His father took a seat in one while Charles brewed a fresh pot of tea. The three dogs stretched out on the hearth rug, eagerly soaking up the warmth from the freshly laid fire.
When the tea was ready, Charles brought them each a mug. “Is Mother still abed?” he asked as he sat down.
“She was when I left her.” Arthur raised his mug to his lips, unwilling to have the conversation diverted. “Forty thousand pounds is a great deal of money.”
Charles’s muscles tensed imperceptibly.
The two of them had yet to talk candidly since his return. Charles had been reluctant to do so, and his father had so far refrained from pressing him. But no longer, it seemed. His father’s patience was apparently at an end.
“Yes,” Charles replied. “I know.”
There was a lengthy silence between them.
It was taut with all the things left unsaid since Charles’s last visit home. The lingering disappointment at the choices he’d made and the anger and frustration at his stubborn determination to diverge from the path that had been set out for him since birth.