As the carriage door opened, Grace looked to where Aldous sat, on the opposite seat. He smiled at her. “Ready, my love?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she replied, swallowing over the lump in her throat.
Aldous descended first and then turned, holding out a hand to Julian. “Come on, my old friend,” he said. “Let’s get you settled.”
Julian regarded Aldous’ hand for a moment, and then reached for it and stepped down from the carriage. Grace followed, watching as her brother gazed up at Highfield’sancient façade for the first time in over thirty years. He stood stock-still, as if transfixed by what he was seeing.
“Welcome home, Julian,” Grace said, fighting the ever-present threat of tears as she looped her arm through his. “Oh, how I wish I could see inside your head, to know your thoughts. Do you recognize anything, I wonder? Anything at all?”
As Julian continued to stare, she felt a shudder pass through him. He turned and looked at the gatehouse for a moment, and then shifted his gaze back to Highfield, specifically the rose window. Then his chin lifted slightly, and his mouth formed its familiar, lopsided smile.
“He knows, Grace,” Aldous said, quietly. “He knows.”
*
“It’s in theIllustrated London Newsand theNews of The World.” Louisa sighed, set the papers aside, and picked up her teacup. “Papa and Mama will not be at all pleased. They really did not want all this publicity.”
“Unavoidable, I fear,” Maxwell said. “A veteran lieutenant—a Baron, no less—found alive in a humble institution thirty years after supposedly being lost at Waterloo? Stories like that don’t stand a chance of remaining a secret.”
“He wasn’t a Baron at the time.” Louisa took a sip of tea. “And the way they describe his injuries is dreadful. In one paragraph he’s presented as a long-lost hero, and in the next, they make him sound like a monster.”
“Hyperbole sells, my love. As much as people like to read happy tales, they are also drawn to the gruesome side of things. Don’t despair. Your uncle’s story will soon be old news. You’ll see.”
“I hope so.” Louisa set her cup down and poked at her scrambled eggs.
The past fortnight had been an exercise in emotion. Though her Uncle Julian still only spoke the same two words, there was little doubt at all that he knew he’d come home. His happiness bypassed his external scars and manifested in the sparkle of a brilliant blue eye, and a frequent lopsided smile. He had become used to the family members, all of whom spent time with him regularly, mostly playing the game he loved. Geoffrey Singleton, the orderly, had turned out to be a blessing, taking care of Julian’s needs. His return and subsequent acclimatization to life at Highfield had, in fact, been easier than expected.
And Louisa had been at Highfield two days ago, when Julian had received a letter from his regiment commander, a man whose name was already a legend in military and civilian circles. In it, he had given thanks for Julian’s sacrifice and bravery, as well as wishing him peace for the remainder of his life. Grace had read the letter to him, though it was beyond doubtful he understood any of it. She’d also shown him the signature at the bottom of the page, determined he should see it even if it meant nothing to him. It consisted of a single name only.
Wellington.
One thing had not changed, that being the nightly ritual of lighting the candle in the rose window. Grace had insisted it continue, to serve as a reminder that many sons, brothers, and fathers, never came back from the war. And, of course, it also continued to provide a beacon for those who might have need of one.
A solitary candle. A light in the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Autumn slithered alongin a generally damp fashion. It was Louisa’s least favorite season, for it stripped the trees and wasted the gardens. She had to admit, however, that the rich blue of an autumn sky was unlike any other. On such a day, Louisa was chatting with Reuben, the sun having created a summer-like atmosphere in the greenhouse where they stood. The old man was telling her about the time, as a young man, he’d been bitten by an adder that had been curled up in a woodpile. “Got me on the wrist when I reached in,” he said, showing her the two, tiny white scars. “Arm swelled up so much, I had to tear my shirt sleeve to get my shirt off. Still have a bit of numbness in these fingertips, even after all these years.”
Louisa suppressed a shudder. “Ugh. How awful. Have you ever seen any in the garden?”
“Nay, not adders. Seen the odd grass-snake, but they do no harm. They just make a stink or play dead if you mess with ’em.”
“Still, I hope I never—” She paused, frowning at the sight of a woman wandering through the garden toward the fountain. “Who’s that?”
She doesn’t look like a beggarwoman. Maybe she’s collecting for some charity or other.
Yet something about the woman’s behavior seemed odd, especially when she paused by the fountain and gazed up at the house.
“Lass looks a bit familiar, Mistress,” Reuben said, following Louisa’s gaze. “I think I’ve seen her before. Back in the summer.”
Louisa’s eyes widened. “Here, in the garden?”
“Nay. Walking in the lane, yonder.” He nodded vaguely toward it. “A pretty lass. Bid me a good morning, she did. Scottish accent.”
Louisa gave him a dubious look. “Are you sure it’s the same woman?”
He scratched at the white bristle on his chin. “Aye, looks like. That’s to say, the lass in the lane was wearin’ a hat a bit like the one she’s wearin’ now, with a bunch of feathers flapping about. White feathers, though, as I recall. Made me think of a circus pony. Could be a coincidence, o’ course.”
