Where his father, and Ramsey’s honor, died the same day.
As arrangements were made for him to depart within a few days’ time, he sent off a letter that notified the staff of his upcoming return. The housekeeper would likely have a heart spasm from shock at the news, and the steward would probably call it an answer to a prayer. He was half tempted to rid himself of the place, but it had been in his family for generations, and such legacy wasn’t so easily dismissed.
Ramsey also sent word to Heathcliff to notify him of the upcoming departure, and only on the last line left the destination of his venture. He could almost hear the groan and displeasure of his friend at reading his intentions. But Heathcliff, while loyal, never had the same drive in sense of honor that Ramsey experienced.
No, Heathcliff was far more jovial, flexible, and dismissive of the harsh truths of propriety. It was times like these that Ramsey wished he were more like his friend.
And other times, he wished his friend was more like him.
But, as in most good friendships, they balanced each other out in a beneficial way.
The few days’ time before his departure passed quickly under the constant details that needed attending to in order for the trip to be made smoothly. And far quicker than he would have wished, Ramsey found himself in a carriage on the way to Glenwood Manor in northern England. He could only praise God that it would take him a full two days on the road to get to his destination.
He’d need that much time to resign himself to the fact that he was returning.
Returning to the place that should have been called home, but never felt like it.
No. Prison would have been a better description.
With shackles that he still wore, regardless of where he lived.
Shackles with his father’s name engraved on every inch.
