He urged the horse into a brisk trot along the winding drive, mist curling around the hedges like smoke. The rhythmic motion steadied him at first, the reins taut between his hands, the leather familiar under his fingers.
The clip-clop of hooves became a kind of drumbeat, matching the pulse that had been racing since he left London.
“You’re restless, Edward,” he muttered under his breath, the words swallowed by the wind. His breath came in short, visible bursts, misting over the rising sun. “Yes, that’s it. Always restless. No need to dwell on what cannot be fixed.”
Yet, with each turn along the gravel paths, the same thought pried its way in.
Beatrice.
Her gentle, loving care for Pip, the way her voice softened whenever she was happy, the tilt of her head when she laughed, even the soft reprimand she had once given him over an error—it all returned, unbidden.
Edward leaned forward in the saddle, urging the horse into a canter, then a gallop. The wind ripped through his coat, whipped his hair into his eyes, and he rode with a speed that left the landscape a blur. His hands, firm on the reins, trembled slightly.
Passing the small copse of trees at the edge of the estate, he pulled the reins, letting the horse slow down to a steady trot. From the top of the hill, the fields stretched wide.
He took in the green sweep of his lands, the neat hedgerows, the shape of the ornamental lake, and the mist rising from its surface.
He could have been alone in the world, and he would have still felt it—an absence sharper than any chill. Beatrice wasnot beside him, not laughing at his absurd comments on the steward’s errors, not correcting him gently like she always did.
A sharp whinny pulled him back to the present. One of the younger horses in the paddock tossed its head, startled by his approach. Edward slowed, guiding his horse closer, shaking out the tension that had coiled in his shoulders.
“Distraction,” he muttered. “I need motion. I need… nothing but this.”
His eyes lingered too long on the stone bridge over the lake. He imagined Beatrice there, perched lightly on the rail, book in hand, golden hair damp from the rain. His chest tightened, and he had to grip the reins harder.
The ride back was quieter, slower. The horse’s breathing mingled with the early morning mist.
Edward’s hands were damp, his coat slick at the shoulders, but his mind had cleared in part. The urgency of the ride, the physical effort, had burned away the first layer of restless obsession. Yet the ache remained—the ache of absence, of longing.
Back at the stables, he dismounted carefully, his hands gripping the pommel until Sir Galahad’s legs were steady beneath him. A groom approached with a brush and a basin of warm water, bowing slightly.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, his eyes catching Edward’s for a fraction of a second. “Shall I?—”
“No,” Edward interrupted, his voice sharper than he had intended.
He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from exertion, and glanced toward the house. The windows were empty. The air held nothing but his own reflection in the polished glass.
“Perhaps a carriage ride,” he muttered to himself, pacing briefly. “Perhaps… London.”
After he refreshed himself and changed into clean clothes, he tried to get some work done. After one cup of tea, he grew listless. He reached automatically for the second cup.
The tray was already set—china warmed, tea poured to the proper depth, steam rising in a thin, disciplined line—but his hand paused mid-air, his fingers hovering over porcelain that had no purpose now. He withdrew it with a frown and pushed the cup back into alignment, as though correcting the servant’s mistake rather than his own.
“There will be no need,” he said quietly.
The footman inclined his head, picked up the tray and withdrew. The door closed with a precise click.
Edward remained standing a moment longer than necessary, his eyes fixed on the tray. The habit had formed quickly. Too quickly. It unsettled him.
He carried the teacup to his desk and sat, opening the ledger he had already reviewed once that morning. The figures were correct, painfully so. Every account reconciled down to the last farthing.
He checked them again. And again.
“Still solvent,” he murmured dryly. “Remarkable.”
Nothing changed.
Wrexford Hall ran as it always had—efficiently, seamlessly, without drama. Stewards responded promptly. Grounds were kept. Repairs were anticipated rather than demanded.
