“Fortunately for me, my father saw fit to separate the mill from the rest of the Welbourne estate and leave it to me for a living, but within months of our father’s death, your father had sold everything our father had left him and moved to London, and I never heard from him again.”
As much as Anthony wanted to defend his father, he knew such actions were brazen. And he did not like to admit that his father had made a single misstep.
“I later heard through various sources that he married your mother, who came with a sizable dowry. I then heard you were born, and then of her death.”
Anthony stiffened at the reference to his mother. He’d never met her. She died in childbirth. His birth.
Suddenly the fire in the grate felt too hot—the conversation too heavy. It was his turn to stand from the table and pace the mill cottage’s stone floor. He did not want to have this discussion. It pricked parts of his consciousness that were uncomfortable. He much preferred living with what he imagined the truth to be instead of hearing anything to the contrary.
Uncle Robert continued with his cobalt eyes fixed staunchly on him, undeterred. “Years passed, and I still never heard from your father. I would not have known how to reach him even if I had wanted to. One day I received a letter from your mother’s sister. She said that your father had died, and that she could no longer care for you. Then you arrived in a carriage.”
Anthony stepped to the window and stared out. Even as a child he’d always felt guilt over the expectation that Uncle Robert would care for him. He’d never really belonged anywhere with his father away with the military.
“Since then I’ve tried to do my best by you, but I’m a bachelor. I know nothing of children. Was your father brave? Probably. Was he dashing and heroic? I’m sure he was. But those pursuits are temporary, Anthony. One cannot live that life forever. Consider that you are more fortunate than most. You have options, for this mill will pass to you, as the only living Welbourne. If you choose to accept that path, your future could indeed be bright.”
Anthony turned from the window, with no idea how to respond. Uncle Robert had been good to him, yes. But he did not want a life like his uncle’s, and he did not like the negligent picture the man was painting of his father. “But what if I don’t want this life? What if I don’t want the mill?”
The words echoed in the corners of the modest room. Chiding him. Condemning him.
Anthony had thought it would feel good to make that declaration—that it would lift the weight off him to finally give voice to the truth of his opinions.
But the opposite seemed to be true.
The words echoed more sharply than intended, and instead of the sense of freedom he’d anticipated, regret crept in.
His uncle’s expression didn’t change. “How like your father you are. In many ways. I know you think your father was a hero. But taking care of home and those around you is heroic too.”
Anthony lifted his gaze to the weapon hanging above the mantel. The rifle hanging there had been his father’s weapon—one of the only things he had that belonged to him. He could not even remember what his father looked like.
And a sense of anger began to build.
All his grief over being alone and being an orphan had been channeled into the desire to be like the father he’d never really known well—as if living a life that would make the man proud would somehow cross the divide that death had created. Uncle Robert was challenging that.
His uncle moved to exit the room. As he passed Anthony, he stopped at his side and rested his hand on his shoulder. “You are young. Your life is ahead of you. You don’t believe me now, but one day you’ll want a home to rest in. Permanency. Do not discount steadiness and security. You don’t have to go to war to fight to be important. You don’t think it, but the work we do here, now, is important to every farmer we work with.”
Anthony hadn’t understood how significant that conversation was—how it would stay with him for years, becoming one of the dominant memories of interacting with the man who had essentially raised him when no one else would.
He also hadn’t realized how hurtful it probably was to Uncle Robert. What was more, the awareness that Anthony had never really thanked his uncle for taking him in and raising him would forever haunt him.
He never should have been off chasing heroics. He should have been here on the moor where he belonged. Had he been, his uncle, his only relative, might still be alive.
Chapter 25
As Anthony scanned Hollythorne House’s rear courtyard, he reminded himself of the importance of remaining focused.
Thoughts of Charlotte and their past had been dominant as of late, and that simply could not continue. It was not safe. Complacency and distraction were the enemies of his assignment, and the fact that Mrs. Hargrave had just informed him that she had seen a dark figure in black walking on the far side of the garden wall reinforced that fact.
In all likelihood the figure was Charlotte, but now that the locals and tenants were aware she and Henry were at Hollythorne House, curious visitors might happen by.
He continued on, and sure enough, he spied Charlotte through the back iron gate at the small graveyard. She’d not noticed him, so as soon as he confirmed there was no danger, he slowed his steps to take in the sight at his leisure.
Much had changed since their time together that summer years ago, but there was no denying she was every bit as beautiful as she had ever been. At present, no bonnet covered her hair, and the bright sunlight filtered through the sparse yellow and brown leaves still clinging to the oak branches, dappling her thin shoulders and fair face. Her dark hair had been coiled at the nape of her neck for the earlier church service, but now the autumnal wild winds had freed several long locks, and they fluttered untethered around her narrow face. She was kneeling at a grave, brushing dried leaves and grasses from it.
He strolled closer to the iron gate as she adjusted the black shawl over her shoulders, swiped her hair away from her face, and pressed the bare fingertips of her long white fingers to the stone.
This was a private moment, and he was intruding.
There was no present peril. He should return to Hollythorne House and leave her in peace.
But it was also a moment of solitude in her presence—a rare, precious encounter he was reluctant to quit just yet. While in the United States, he’d always wondered what it would have been like to have just one day more with her.
That day was here. Now.
So he removed his glove and pushed the gate open.
Startled, she jumped to her feet at the noise.
“I am sorry for interrupting,” he said.
She quickly reestablished her composure. “You’re not.”
“Mrs. Hargrave said she saw someone past the garden, and I’m only making sure all is well.”
“I should have let someone know I was coming out here.” She motioned to a grave marker, a fresh gray one next to one that was much more weathered. “I’d not yet seen my father’s gravestone. I was paying a visit.”
He stepped closer to read the inscription. “When did he die?”
“About two and a half years ago.”
He caught the tinge of sadness reflected in her voice, and he stooped to lift a small stick that had fallen near the stone and tossed it toward the moor. “I know you respected him.”