As he rode up the long, dusty drive, a sudden thought took him. This wasn’t his father’s estate any longer.
It’s mine.
Pulling on the reins of his horse, Stephen slowed his mount to a walk. The same giant oak trees of his childhood still lined either side of the road leading to the main house. The low stone walls marked out the boundaries of the nearby fields.
The place didn’t appear to be much different from what he remembered, but the fact that he was having to rely on old, faded memories rather than recent ones pained him. It had been many years since last he was here.
This was his family home, yet it had never felt like it.
Term breaks spent with his friends and their families during his school days had shown him the truth of what had always been missing in his life. A loving mother and father.
“When are you ever going to stop grieving for something that was never yours? You can’t mourn the loss of a dream,” he muttered.
Some people were fortunate with relatives, others not. He just happened to be one of the latter.
He dug his heels in and urged his horse on. He wanted to spend the least amount of time here. To know the circumstances of his father’s death, hold a brief funeral service, and then get back to London.
Lady Bridget Dyson, the comely widow was counting on him.
I am keen to see her again.
Thoughts of running his fingers through the gentle curls of her long, pale hair quickly sent his mind to wicked places. To what an afternoon spent with the luscious blue-eyed Bridget could be like. Of setting his lips to her naked flesh.
Steady on.
A quick shake of the head had Stephen pushing that ridiculous notion away. Bridget Dyson was a client, nothing more. Though if he were honest, she was the most fetching client he had ever dealt with; but nevertheless, her family were still paying for his services.
Mister Granville, his father’s long-serving steward was waiting for him when Stephen made his way out of the stables and toward the manor house. There were quite a few more gray hairs and lines on his face since last, they had met, but Granville still had a sprightly manner about him. “Sir Stephen, it is good to see you. Though the circumstances could have been better.”
Stephen nodded. “Yes.”
There was no point in either of them making an attempt at flowery words of condolence. Having been a fixture at Moore Manor all of Stephen’s life, Granville had borne witness to the distance which had always existed between father and son. Firstly, by father, then as the years passed, by son.
“So, what happened?” asked Stephen.
Granville motioned toward the house. “Would you like to come inside, and we can discuss this in private?”
Stephen hated the house. It’s sandy-colored ashlar stone walls held nothing for him but cold, empty memories. “I would much rather we walk.”
At the end of the yard was a solid, wooden gate. Stephen opened it and stepped onto the lush green grass of the small high field which abutted the grounds of the house. In the distance more verdant pastures stretched out before his gaze. This was prime grazing land.
His father might have failed as a husband and a father, but he had chosen well when it came to be selecting someone to manage the Moore estate. Granville had excelled in his role.
A few yards inside the paddock, Stephen stopped and turned to Granville. “Well?”
The steward cleared his throat. “Your father hadn’t been spending much time here of late. Just the odd quick visit. When he suddenly arrived last week, it was obvious he was not well. He fell from his horse in the stable yard. We managed to get him inside, and that’s when we discovered his injuries.”
Stephen scowled. “Did he say where he sustained the knife wound? His lawyer mentioned an altercation of some sort. Was he stabbed in London or in a nearby town?”
If it had been somewhere close by, his father’s attempts to reach the estate would make sense.
“Apparently, it was outside of London. He didn’t say much of what had happened, other than he had got into a fight with another gentleman. It took him two days to get here, but he said he was determined to make it,” replied Granville.
Why come all the way here to die? What possible reason could he have had to return to Moore Manor when he was so badly wounded?
“I eventually convinced him to allow me to summon a doctor to come from Guildford, but by the time he arrived, it was too late. Your father passed away during the night.”
Stephen sighed. He could add ‘who had killed his father’ to the long list of queries he had been building since a child. Not that it mattered anymore. He was never going to get a single one of them answered, including the most pressing. The question which would forever haunt him.
