Page 22 of Forgotten No More

No—Harold would not fall prey to his manipulative behavior. He would not run home. He would not bend under his father’s thumb. He would not let another dictate his life.

Not yet, at least.

One day he would have to return home and take over the responsibilities his father had relegated to him. He’d do his utmost to continue on in the family vicarage, serving Brock and his growing family, as his father and grandfather had before him. He would not shirk his duties forever.

But today was not that day.

And if the business venture William had proposed was successful, then a new course for his future may very well be possible. It was imperative that they start immediately.

Harold balled the thin papers in his hands as he paced his room.

He needed more time. Before he resigned himself to a life of mundane routine, he needed to live. To experience all the world had to offer. Would it make his future more tolerable? He didn’t know. But he did know his father had never traveled further than a few hours’ horseback ride from their home in all his life. He’d never sampled the delights of London, the relaxation of Bath, or the thrill of crossing the Scottish border into a foreign country. Harold had barely accomplished the first and knew London held so much more for him than he’d seen thus far.

The vicar had been happy to marry Harold’s mother, the daughter of a neighboring farmer, while Harold dreamed of so much more for himself.

Harold stopped his pacing and dropped into the chair situated before the window in his room. The sun shone bright, sitting high in the sky. The sight usually lifted his spirits and filled him with hope for the day, but since his arrival in London he’d felt oddly unfulfilled. His encounters with Ruby were the only thing that made him feel useful, alive. Now, with William’s plan, he hoped to again instill a sense of purpose to his daily life.

A knock sounded at his door. Not waiting for his permission to enter, Brock pushed the door wide and strolled into the room.

“Go ahead and walk in like you own the place,” Harold muttered, trying to shake his gloomy mood.

“Did you forget I do own the place?”

“And what if I had been indecent?”

“I would have called everyone within shouting distance to come take in the sight,” Brock jested. “But they would only get a peek. I like to keep you for myself.” He followed the statement with a wink and sat in the chair opposite Harold, stretching out his booted feet and crossing them at his ankles.

They sat in silence, Brock’s eyes on him, but Harold refused to shift his gaze from the window.

“You are killing me,” Brock finally said. “What has you in such a sour mood?”

Harold held up his hand, the letters still wrapped tightly in his fist.

“Ah. I heard you’ve been receiving quite a few letters from home. I hoped they were from a lady friend, and not the indomitable Vicar Jakeston,” Brock said. “But from your expression and mood recently, they must be from the latter.”

Harold grudgingly looked to his friend. “Latest word is that my father’s workload has never been weightier, while his strength continues to wane.”

Brock was silent a moment. He appeared vexed. “There’s no reason your father’s burden should be any heavier than it has been in years past. If anything, it should be lighter—I’ve been quite attentive to his needs. The last I saw him, he had his shirtsleeves rolled and a crew of able-bodied parishioners working alongside him. But I understand if you feel you must retire to the country to attend his demands.”

Harold laughed, startling himself at the madness of the sound. “Oh no, my father will not get his clutches on me that easily.”

“But if he needs help—”

“He does not. And what’s more, you know he does not—you’ve made your point.”

“We could ride there at any time to check on your family,” Brock persisted, more serious now. “If you are concerned, we would be back by sundown, assuming all is well.”

“You know he will not let me return to London once he has me home. If you think otherwise, you are as foolish as everyone says.”

“Who says I am foolish?” Brock asked.

“That’s what you take from that?”

“Of course. I care little for your family drama, but if someone speaks ill of me, I am very interested.”

Harold knew it was all meant to be jest. Before Brock’s disappearance and then after his return last year, he’d been very involved in Harold’s life. They shared everything, including their family struggles. There was not another being who knew Harold’s struggles as Brock did. There was not another person with whom he could share all he was, all he wanted, and all the demons that held him back.

“You do not have to take over the vicarage.” Brock’s tone remained uncharacteristically serious. “I can find another vicar to serve my family. The place is fairly obsolete, anyways, for I am rarely about the estate.” Since Brock had found Lady Haversham, he’d let his own demons go in favor of love and peace.