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Completely awake now, he drank deeply of the water, which Bulwick had thoughtfully provided, in a carafe on the side table. He went to the window, opened the heavy velvet drapes, and peered outside.
It was still dark, but a faint rosy shade began to colour the East. No question of going back to sleep, now. Hunter was sure that Nick was already up and going.
He would look for the old groom and wipe away the last of the nightmare, listening to Nick relating everything that had been going on here, during his long absence from home.
*****
Lady Louisa Barrington, Duchess of Melton, looked critically at her face in the mirror, while her young maid, Prudence, was arranging her hair under a flattering beribboned lace cap.
“You look yourself again, Your Grace, if I may say so. You have filled up a bit and your eyes… But now”, she went on briskly “His Grace is back home again and everything will be all right, will it not, Your Grace?”
Lady Melton smiled. She had known Prudence since her birth, the daughter of a respectable but impoverished family, and was used to her artless demeanour. And the girl was right. For the first time since the accident, she could look at herself with some satisfaction, and at the future with some hope.
She closed her eyes, remembering the mindless terror that had gripped her when the careening coach, driven by some drunken lout, had suddenly appeared around the bend. The horses had reared, neighing, and the heavier vehicle had smashed full into their light travelling carriage, with a sickening noise of crushed wood. That sound was the last thing she could recall before oblivion had claimed her.
Louisa shook herself out of her brooding. Time to start the new day and to get to know, again, her own son – so much time had passed - she wondered what sort of man he had become.
There was so much to be said and done.
She sighed. Some of what had to be said would not be pleasant. Her late elder son, Richard, heir presumptive to the title, had not been wise. Handsome and debonair, always exuding charm, a redoubtable Corinthian, able to spar with Gentleman Jackson himself, and to feather angles with his curricle, he had also been a reckless gambler and had entertained questionable relationships with ladies of dubious virtue. His father, the late Duke, had been so inordinately proud of his heir, that he had never checked or restrained him.
“Don’t you fret, my boy” he had indulgently told Charles, his hard working, serious third born, when he had shown his father the heavy dent that Richard’s expenses were making in the estate’s revenues.
“Let him be, he will calm down in time and, anyway, we can afford it, can’t we?”
‘Well, we are not destitute,’ she thought, ‘and the estate is vastly profitable, thanks to Charles’ thrifty management, but, with two dowries to provide for, a mansion in London to keep up, and a living to arrange for Charles, if he decides to enter the Church (although that seems rather less likely now…) things need to change.
It is, truly, not seemly for Charles to act as his brother’s steward – regardless of the cost, an estate manager must be employed. And, as Hunter really must marry, and get himself an heir, a good dowry would not come amiss, now, would it?’
*****
In a few days, a routine, of a sort, had been established.
Hunter would wake at dawn, after a restless night plagued by nightmares, go down to the stables and have a chat with Nick, take a brisk walk in the park and then break his fast, with his family, in the small dining room.
It was a cosy and intimate room which he liked infinitely better than the formal dining room, with its long table, musty hangings and depressing centrepieces.
His mother would tell him about his neighbours, and expound on her plans for the coming Season; his sisters would laugh and chatter and talk of French couturières, balls and routs; his brother would prose on about the estate, the tenants, and the improvements he had thought of. Hunter would listen to everybody, nod genially, let the flow of conversation dance around him, and reprove himself for his lack of interest.
After having dealt with decisions which entailed life or death, for much of his adult life, he could not help but feel that there was a slight lack of import, or even sense, in the topics in which his family – as dear as everyone was to him – seemed so absorbed.
Life as Colonel Lord Barrington had been much harsher, but much simpler, than life as His Grace the Duke of Melton.
Hunter soon realised that his mother wanted him married tout de suite, possibly before the Season ended, and preferably to a young lady with a fat dowry. He found this an appalling prospect, because, even if not averse to marriage in principle, he did not want to be rushed, neither did he want somebody else to choose for him.
His mind felt scarred, still torn by everything that he had seen and done – and he was not about to explain anything of that, to anyone. It was still too sensitive a topic, and his nightmares unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Perusing his library, he had found a book of Ancient Greek poetry, and read a fragment by Sappho, with which he felt a total affinity:
“Like wild gales, sweepingdesolate mountains
uprooting oaks
Eros harrows my heart
sweet, bitter, indomitable wild beast…”
Beatriz was still an indelible, aching wound. He did not want to suffer again. He did not want to lose his heart to somebody who could tear it asunder. He wanted an affectionate, companionable marriage. He wanted to be friends with his wife. He wanted a sensible, cool-headed young woman, not some vapid, giggling miss or some haughty high-flier.
One afternoon, while he was walking, brooding, and trying to sort out his feelings, full of a sense of guilt, that he, as the Duke, could not bring himself to care, more, for the management of his estates, he wandered away from his usual path and found himself deep inside his neighbour’s park. Looking around, at first he did not understand where he was: the natural woods of the park had progressively given way to a more structured growth.
