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Chapter Four
Haply I think on thee, and then mystate,
Like to the lark at break of dayarising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’sgate.
—Shakespeare, “Sonnet 29”
The door reverberateddespite Nicholas’s valiant effort not to slam it, although a part of him unkindly hoped the old man jumped in his chair. The vastness of the atrium mirrored his sense of hollowness, his heels clicking on the floor as he moved to the marble stairs dominating the hall. He paused at their base, feeling oddly disoriented.
“Sir? Forgive me…I do apologize. My lord?”
Fredericks’s cheeks reddened, and absurdly, Nicholas wanted to laugh. He’d never seen the weathered face disconcerted, and it happened now because Fredericks had forgotten to address him as a peer? It was a sobriquet as far as Nicholas was concerned. He himself could not digest that he now owned the title.
“Fredericks, when have I ever stood on ceremony in this house?” He resisted the urge to laugh, afraid he might not be able to stop.
Fredericks thrust his chin toward the stairwell. “The east wing has been prepared for your convenience.”
“The east wing?”
“Aye, my lord. Your father requested it. He remains comfortable on the first floor.”
Did he want to stay in the lord’s chambers? He would not be displacing his father. The man had never lived in that wing. The earl had commissioned it as part of the upgrade for his wife. Nicholas’s mother had not lived to see its completion. That was when his father had taken over the old state suite on the ground floor. Did conceding to this designation indicate Nicholas was complacent with this new role? He shook his head. Was there truly a choice? What the hell did he care? He’d been sleeping on camp beds in tents for years. He should be grateful for the comfort of a large bed and four walls.
“Thank you. No need to accompany me. I’ve not been gone so long that I’ve forgotten my way.” No, but he’d lost his way. He set his leaden foot on the first step, hesitating at the sound of a cough, easily heard despite its polite subtleness. He turned, and if possible, Fredericks’s cheeks were ruddier.
“Fredericks?”
“My lord, you did not come with your man. May I send Isaac to attend you?”
Nicholas’s weary brain could not place the name, but Fredericks appeared eager, so Nicholas acquiesced. He had been wearing army attire too long not to need some assistance reentering civilian mode.
He continued up the stairs, paused at the division, then headed right where he would have normally gone left. Reaching the top, he stood at the iron balustrade. The rail encircled the entire atrium, a full gallery walkway. He watched as Fredericks scooted beneath the stairwell and disappeared from sight.
Nicholas had been in his early teen years when Wyatt had built the east wing, including this grand entranceway. The man was innovative—absolutely brilliant. Watching Wyatt had inspired a passion for architecture in Nicholas. A love he had not been able to pursue except for the folly. And now? Was there place for such passion as an only son? He thought of his men. Of the aftermath of too many battles. He thought of Daniel. Alas, real life tended to get in the way of aspirations, of dreams.
Shaking off the shadow of gloom, he left the balcony and entered the large chamber, leaving the door ajar so the hall light could spill into the quarters. Nothing had changed. As with the library, his father’s money and virility permeated the room. Rich, mahogany paneling and dark, puce curtains drawn over the tall windows added to its luxurious formality. Each piece of furniture, chosen for its workmanship and attention to detail, was designed with the comfort of a large man in mind. Well, he didn’t have his father’s girth—scratch that—his father’s girth of days gone by, but he did have his height. He sunk into the voluminous framed chair set before the mantel. His father certainly strayed from austere when it came to his personal comfort. The chair was as well padded as those in the room below.
The hearth sat empty. It was too warm this evening for a fire, and he was grateful Fredericks did not presume his father’s desire for heat would be his. He did wonder why the man had not drawn the curtains back to let the remaining light of day into the room. Instead, several candles flickered on the mantel, making the dark grate an abyss for Nicholas’s thoughts.
Four years. He’d left to prove he was an independent man. A man worthy of his father’s esteem. Deserving of Catherine’s love. All he had found out for sure was that life was fragile and, for a certainty, finite. What he had done was throw away four precious years. Years with Daniel. Years with Catherine. He ran his hand over his face. What use, regrets?
“My lord?”
Isaac. Garishly overadorned, he stood in the doorway, staring at Nicholas expectantly. Of course the name had struck a vague cord of memory—his brother’s valet.Had beenhis brother’s valet. Isaac had been a gnat since childhood, always hovering about. Now a full-blown popinjay, he was the last thing Nicholas wanted in his room. He was about to send the man packing when he recalled that Isaac was also Fredericks’s grandson.
All energy seeped from Nicholas, and weariness took its place. Lord, he had no patience with men who were more concerned about the turn of their collars than they were about the state of the world, but he could not insult Fredericks. Besides, Nicholas’s man had been wounded at Badajoz and would not be arriving at Woodfield until he was well enough to travel. Laying his head against the back of the chair, Nicholas surrendered. What had happened to his introspection of moments ago? Life was finite. What harm could it do?
“Enter,” Nicholas said.
“I took the liberty, my lord, of unpacking your bag.”
Nicholas grunted.
“Oh, you are quite welcome, my lord,” Isaac continued as if Nicholas had expressed some form of pleasure, “although I have sent most of it to be laundered. Your items were in despairingly poor condition. I cannot imagine how horrific the war must have been when you could not even maintain basic standards of hygiene.”
“Is.”
