And he had said it in criticism ofher,pompous ass that he was.
He was a survivor too, was he not? He had survived his own birth, no mean feat when so many newborns did not. He had survived all the perils and illnesses of early childhood. He had survived that ordeal on the cliff face. He had survived reckless horse and curricle races and a duel with pistols and the jumping of broad gaps between houses from four stories up, once during a heavy rainstorm. He had done a lot of surviving. He had got to the age of thirty more or less intact physically and mentally and emotionally.
It is what you do with your life and the fact of your survival that counts.
What the devil had he ever done with his? What real use had he made of the precious gift of breath?
He left the cave and walked down the beach until he was at the water’s edge. The salt of the air was more pronounced here. He felt exposed, surrounded by vastness, half deafened by the elemental roar of the sea and the breaking of the waves. The sun was sparkling across the water, half blinding him. Hector was gamboling along in the shallows, knee-deep in water, sending up cascades of it behind him. He was going to be caked with sand to take back to the house.
What was it exactly he feared about the sea? Percy asked himself. Was it that all that water could trap him and drown him? Or was it something more fundamental than that? Was it the fear of vanishing into nothing in such vastness? Or the fear of coming face-to-face with the vast unknown? Was it just that it was easier to cling to his own trivial little inland world?
But he was not used to introspection and turned his attention back to his dog, which was obviously enjoying itself.
Hisdog?
“Damn your eyes, Hector,” he murmured. “Could you not have been a proud, handsome mastiff? Or taken a fancy to Mrs. Ferby instead of me?”
She had not played fair—Lady Barclay, that was, not Mrs. Ferby. He had told her the whole of his story, even to the pulling down of his breeches for his spanking. She had told him only part of hers. A chunk of it, the key part of it, had been omitted. And it was the very part that he suspected would explain everything.
He had no right to know. He had had no right to ask in the first place. He had only more or less tricked her into telling her story by offering his own in exchange. And he did notwantto know what she had withheld. He had cringed even from what she had told him. He had the feeling—no, heknew—that the missing details would be unbearable.
He always avoided what was unbearable.
She had spentthree yearsat Penderris Hall. And she was not mended even now. Far from it. It was not simple grieving that kept her broken.
He did not want to know.
He did not usually pry into other people’s lives. He was not usually curious about what was of no personal concern to him, especially if it promised something painful.
Lady Barclay was not of any personal concern to him. She was not in any way at all the type of woman to attract him. Indeed, she was all that would normally repel him.
What wasabnormalabout his dealings with her, then?
Devil take it, he thought abruptly, he needed to leave. Not just the beach, though he turned to stride back up it anyway, leaving Hector to catch up to him. Hardford Hall. Cornwall. He needed to put them behind him, forget about them, send a decent steward down to manage the estate and content himself with the knowledge that he had done his duty by coming and setting things in order. He needed to get back to his own life, to his friends and his family.
He needed to forget Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay—and she would surely be only too delighted to be forgotten. She would not have to hide out so much in the dower house with him gone.
He would definitely leave, he decided as he scrambled up the path to the top, out of breath but unwilling to slow down. Today. Or at worst first thing in the morning. He would get Watkins to pack his belongings and would send word to Mimms in the stables. But he would not have to wait for either of them. He could ride his horse home as he had ridden it here.
He would leave today.
He would send an excuse to the Quentins.
He was feeling purposeful, even cheerful, as he pushed through a gap in the gorse bushes without quite murdering his boots, and then strode across the lawn toward the house. The only decision that remained was whether he would take Hector with him—not running beside his horse, of course, but in the carriage. Watkins might well abandon stoicism and hand in his notice. And Percy would be the laughingstock of London. But who cared?
He would be many miles on his way before darkness. His spirits were buoyed by the thought and his stride lengthened at the pleasant prospect of going home—and never coming back.
There was no one in the hall when he let himself into the house. But there were two letters on a silver tray on the table facing him. Percy looked down at them, hoping they were for anyone but him, as they probably were. No one had written since he came here.
He recognized the writing on both—that of Higgins, his man of business in London, on the one and... his mother’s on the other.
11
Percy frowned at the letters. He could have done without this distraction when he was all set to march upstairs and ring for Watkins before his purpose cooled.
Perhaps Higgins had found someone to take on the job of steward. Nowthatwould be well-timed news—and fast too. But how the devil did his mother know he was here? He had been very neglectful and not written since he came here. Perhaps Cousin Cyril had passed the word on. And then his frown deepened as he cast his mind back. Had he written to her himself? That night before he set off for Cornwall after writing to warn Ratchett that he was coming here and to suggest that the cobwebs be swept off the rafters before he arrived? Devil take it, had he really addedthatto the letter? That was what came of setting pen to paper when one was inebriated.Hadhe written to his mother too? And if so, what the deuce had he said?
He broke the seal and opened the single sheet. His eyes scanned the closely spaced lines of her small, neat handwriting.
