Or maybe, just maybe, it was her.
Chapter Ten
Three days hadpassed. Now, under a morning drizzle, the house was quiet, but Quinton was already awake. He sat on the edge of the bed in Barrington’s guest chamber, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the patterns on the rug. His back ached, not sharply, but with the dull insistence of old bruises and restless sleep. The mattress was far too soft after months of stone and straw, and the silence in the room pressed in from every corner, too polite, too untouched.
Sunlight filtered in through high windows, casting long slats of light across the floor. The morning air carried the scent of lavender soap and the distant clatter of kitchen pans downstairs. Normal sounds. Comfortable sounds. And yet, they made him feel like a ghost walking someone else’s life.
A knock at the door, not too loud but precise, brought him back to the present.
“Come in,” Quinton called.
Kenworth stepped inside, offering a crisp salute before closing the door behind him. He carried a tray balanced neatly in one hand. “Tea, my lord. And a roll that appears not to have survived the journey.”
Quinton managed a faint smile. “Still saluting me, Kenworth? I haven’t worn the uniform in years.”
Kenworth arched an eyebrow. “Old habits. Also, you tend to sound more reasonable after caffeine.”
Quinton accepted the cup. “Thank you.”
Kenworth set the tray down on the writing desk and crossed to open the drapes fully. “If I may be so bold, you look slightly less like death than yesterday.”
“How comforting.” Quinton couldn’t help but smile. He and Kenworth had verbally sparred long before the war.
Kenworth tilted his head. “And you haven’t bolted yet. That’s something.”
“Tempting, though,” Quinton murmured, sipping the tea. “I don’t quite know what to do with myself.”
Kenworth’s dry voice didn’t miss an opportunity. “Perhaps start with putting on trousers. You’ll find conversations less drafty that way.”
That earned a short, rough, yet real laugh. Quinton shook his head. “You missed your calling.”
“I’m still hoping for a promotion to pastry taster, though it may kill me. One more sample of lemon sponge and I shall require an embroidered waistcoat in a larger size. Mrs. Bainbridge keeps sending cakes. It’s been a harrowing ordeal.”
Quinton chuckled again, but the sound faded. “Did Mary-Ann send word?”
Kenworth hesitated. “No, sir. Not yet.”
The silence that followed stretched a little too long.
Quinton looked down into his cup. “She knows I’m here. I sent word. She answered. But still… I don’t know what I’d say.”
“That you’re alive might be a decent start.”
Quinton huffed softly. “She has a life now. A future. I’d be stepping into it as the man she once knew, and I’m not sure I’m still him.”
Kenworth studied him for a moment, then moved to straighten the edge of the bed cover. “The entire village knows you’re back. Letters are being written, hearts aflutter. Mrs. Porter has commissioned a commemorative pudding, and someone has asked Barrington if you’ll be giving a speech inthe market square. I told him you prefer dramatic cliffside monologues.”
“Bloody hell. I hope not.”
“But it did make me wonder,” Kenworth added lightly, “how the word spread so quickly. Barrington’s letter to the Lord Edward in the Home Office only went out two days ago.”
The thought lodged sharp and cold.
Quinton’s brow furrowed. “You’re right. We hadn’t even reached Dover when it was posted.”
A pause.
Then, quieter: “One of my captors said something strange once. During one of the prisoner exchanges. He told me,‘The post is taken care of.’ I thought he meant the messages were being blocked.”
