“Lord yes.”
“And Lord Wyvern?”
“That title’s only a couple of hundred years old, and it belongs to Devon, not Sussex. But the Somerfords have been here for five hundred years or so. Typical English blue blood. Saxon, Norman, Dane, and a bit of everything else that’s come by in the last thousand years. Like the Dunpott-Ffyfes.”
“True.”
They shared a smile that might be the most honest one ever.
Eventually the coach slowed to turn into a village. “Hawk’nvale,” he said with soft satisfaction.
It lay in a gentle valley, with a broken row of old cottages set along the river. Each had a narrow garden running down to the water. That style marked a truly ancient settlement dating back to the times when rivers were more important than roads.
The large church set on a rise across the village green had a square Anglo-Saxon tower that marked it as at least eight hundred years old. To either side, like curved arms, lay newer buildings, so that the whole village embraced the green.
Surely it stood ready to embrace a returning son.
They drew up on the modern side of the village, in front of the stuccoed Peregrine Inn and climbed down.
“This is New Hawk,” Van said, looking around. “Down by the river is Old Hawk.”
“Where does Major Hawkinville live?”
“Wherever he puts his hat. But his father’s house is in Old Hawk, of course. The walled place with the tower inside.”
It was so much part of the older section of the village that her eye had ignored it. Now she saw a walled conglomeration of buildings surely going back in parts to the days of the ancient church. “Ancient, but not handsome,” she remembered.
“Did it actually hold against the Normans?” she asked in fascination.
“The wall’s not that old, but the tower probably saw William the Conqueror go past. It’s a fascinating old place, but getting impossible to live in comfortably.”
A tall, cheerful man strode out of the main doors to greet them. He seemed glowingly happy to see Van. Van, smiling, introduced him as Smithers, the innkeeper.
The healing was happening, she was sure.
Mr. Smithers regaled her with stories of the Young Georges’ impish youth as he led her to her room. It proved to be as up to date as her own at home. A maid brought water and she freshened herself. When she went down, she was directed to a private parlor where Van had arranged a meal.
She was glad of it, but would have been as happy to go directly to his home. To complete this healing journey. He wasn’t in the room yet, so she looked out of the window at the green, watching people cross, sometimes stop to chat. This had the feel of a good place.
She heard laughter, and returned to the door of the parlor to look out. Van stood in the middle of a group of men of all ages and types, a few maidservants hovering as well. It was clear they all were delighted to see him home again, and were at ease with him. He looked more relaxed than ever.
And younger. Much younger.
He was home.
She’d done her job.
All that remained now was to set him free.
After the meal they hired the inn’s gig and drove to Steynings Park. Though she was sure he could manage a gig, he insisted that she drive.
The neglect soon became obvious. The road worsened, the hedges were untrimmed, the ditches at the sides of the road appeared clogged. All the kinds of things that didn’t get done without someone in charge.
“Have you not been here at all?” she asked.
“Once. There was nothing I could do.”
She could have pursued that, but let it go.
