But she smiled at him—the sort of smile that would soothe every ache and push those tarnished memories far into the past where they belonged. Her gaze did not break away. Instead, she took the reins from his hand, allowing her gloved hand to brush his.
Together they rode into the fresh air and over the moor’s uneven terrain, past Even Tor, past Thoms Tor, past the places that had been so significant. It had been years since he traversed this specific path, yet he knew the way like the back of his hand.
He knew they were getting close when they crossed the arched stone bridge above the River Lamby. At the gate, the white-stone mill cottage he grew up in and the damaged mill building were visible, and the hum of rushing water in the river met his ears.
He’d been in shock the last time he was here, for he’d just learned of his uncle’s death. The sorrow over it, coupled with the guilt of not being here to save him, had been so overwhelming that he’d barely been able to look at what remained after the fire. He’d shut himself off that very day and given himself dozens of legitimate excuses not to return. But now everything was different.
Once at the gate to the millhouse, they dismounted and secured the horses. Anthony turned to Charlotte. “What do you think of it? Is it what you expected?”
Charlotte wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him. “It is as you described it.”
He followed her gaze and tried to assess it with fresh eyes.
The mill itself, a square structure of stone and brick, had two large windows on each side, many of which were damaged or missing, and it was positioned on a small island in order to harness power from the River Lambey. The island was large enough for the building and several mature trees and could be reached by a smaller bridge. Spencer had been right. The roof and wheel were gone, but from where Anthony was standing, the stones of the mill walls appeared largely intact.
“Can it be saved?” Charlotte’s question echoed the one that had simmered in the recesses of his mind since the day he learned of the fire.
He looked up to the charred remains of the mill. But despite the obvious damage, the inner and the outer walls were standing, and the millstone appeared intact. He was by no means an expert in construction, but he knew enough about this particular building and how it needed to function. What was more, his focus was shifting. Determination and motivation would go a long way to overcoming the obstacles.
“Yes. It can,” he responded. “And it’s time I saw to it. My uncle would be angry that I allowed it to remain in such a state for so long.”
“I think he’d understand,” she said with a coy smile. “What he would not understand is how a Grey and a Welbourne saw fit to even speak to one another, let alone become betrothed.”
Anthony chuckled at her playful tone. “If he ever met you, ever spoke with you, he’d be in agreement with me.”
Her cheeks flushed at the compliment.
How he loved seeing her like this—happy, carefree, flirtatious. Each day she was shedding the protective armor that had been her constant companion since their reunion.
She stepped farther into the mill, lifting her gaze to where the roof should have been. “It might be reparable, but do you not think it will be expensive? You may be marrying a landowner, but you’ve seen the ledger and the state of things. I will no longer receive money from Roland’s will, and I—”
“I will stop you right there.” He raised his hand. “We do not need Roland Prior’s money. My pride will not allow it, and I daresay yours would not either. Besides, I am not destitute, after all. I have money from the sale of my commission and my wages for the past several years. And speaking of the ledger, I do believe that if we can save the tenants money by using this mill and implement a few practical changes, the situation will eventually right itself. The estate’s been neglected, that’s all. We’ll simply change it. We will cancel any contracts with Clarett, and given the circumstances, not to mention the unsteady state of Prior Mill, there is no way that agreement could possibly hold. Once I get Welbourne Mill operational once more, the customers will come.”
She sobered and looked down to her hands. “And then there is Hollythorne House and the estate. When we marry, it will all legally belong to you.”
He stiffened. Yes, the transfer of property was a fact that would come with marriage, and he had wondered how that would affect her. It was not something they’d yet discussed, and he knew how much pride she took in her ancestral home and her dreams for its future.
“Perhaps legally,” he offered, “but Hollythorne House will always be yours. And Henry’s. And any other children that may come. That I swear to you, because I know it belongs to you as much as you belong to it. You have fought too hard for it not to be so. I can only imagine what your father would think—a Welbourne, a lowly mill owner—taking up residence there.”
She smiled. “I loved my father dearly, but he was pretentious, wasn’t he? I don’t think that even he would deny that.”
“And you? Will you be able to bear marriage to a hardworking man who labors in a mill? It will hardly be the elegant city life you’ve been used to.”
“The life I was used to was cruel and calculating. The man I am about to marry is opposite in every way. And I am so very grateful.”
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. “I’ve seen where you were raised. Let me show you where I grew up.”
He led Charlotte to the two-story stone mill cottage, which, like Hollythorne House, was built of gray gritstone and blackened with age. But that was where the similarities ended. He lifted his gaze to the thatched roof and the overrun ivy clinging to the cottage’s humble facade. He retrieved the key from his pocket and opened the door.
The scent of damp disuse met him, and despite the shining sun, all was dark. He’d prepared himself to be uncomfortable stepping in here once again, but that was not the sentiment that dominated him at all. Instead, a peace settled over him—a peace quite different from being in Charlotte’s presence or even by being on Blight Moor.
It was the peace of coming home.
Hand in hand they wandered through the shadowed, low-ceilinged rooms, and he allowed himself to feel the memories that existed here—the moments that laid the foundations for the man he was now. The lessons learned. The disappointments endured. How he could recall running through these small chambers, past the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door to the open moorland. He stepped up the creaky stairs, remembering how effortless this climb used to be as a boy, but now he had to duck to prevent hitting his head on the ceiling. This entire visit was like stepping back in time, but with the benefit of time and experience to truly appreciate the beauty of what was around him.
When they returned to the cottage’s kitchen, he stepped to the empty hearth and lifted his gaze to the rifle above it. Charlotte drew to a stop next to him and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.
“That was my father’s rifle,” he said after several seconds.
“He would have been proud of you, Anthony.”
Her words sank in. For he’d shared with her how important it had been for him to fulfill his father’s request and be a soldier. Anthony only wished he would have known the price he’d have to pay to do so. “Do you think so?”