Theo’s heart began thudding wildly in his chest, as though he’d just run a mile. He ran his hands through his hair, the words George had spoken last night coming back to him.
“I don’t care about the money… I care about you.”
God, but he needed to see George. To talk to him right now. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ever put his tumultuous thoughts into words, but he wanted to share them with George without another single moment’s delay.
He headed for the stairs, resolving to wash up quickly. Then he’d go and find George, wherever he happened to be. Drag him back here for a long talk about what this thing between them was, and Theo’s wish to gift him Blackfriars and how they could navigate a life together after. Because surely George would want that too? He had to—he bloody had to.
Thrumming with nerves, Theo raced upstairs. Glancing between his own door and George’s, he plumped for George’s first, just in case he was in, knocking several times, then throwing the door open and bursting inside.
He wasn’t surprised to find the bedchamber empty—but he hadn’t expected it to be this empty.
Theo knew immediately that all George’s things were gone. The dressing table was bare, and when he pulled open the wardrobe doors, there was nothing inside. Nothing in the dresser drawers either.
“George?” he said into the empty silence, his voice wavering a little.
There was, of course, no answer.
He pulled open the connecting door and hurried into his own bedchamber.
A note lay on his bed, his own name in George’s neat handwriting.
Theo.
His hand was shaking as he lifted it up and unfolded the paper.
“Dear Theo,
My apologies for leaving without saying goodbye in person. I had to leave without delay. As you read this, I am on my way back to Wiltshire—Mrs. Ford can explain.
Thank you for the splendid adventure. I loved climbing the mountain with you, and I have enjoyed my time here at Blackfriars more than I can say. You will be glad, I am sure, to get some peace and quiet now.
Will you kindly tell Mr. Morgan how sorry I am to leave him to deal with the rest of the harvest? Please tell him it isn’t to be helped—sometimes our loved ones need us, and we have no choice but to go to them.
I would ask you, too, to please give him my direction—and to do the same for Mr. Martin, and Mrs. Ford and the other servants. Tell them that, should they ever need help, they should write first to me and I will see them right.
The same goes for you, Theo. The offer I made you last night stands. It always will.
Please, let me know if ever you need my help. It will be yours without question.
I thank you again for these glorious weeks.
Your friend, always,
George.”
Theo stared at the letter in his hand. George’s usual neat, careful handwriting was slapdash, the paper blotted in several places with careless spots of ink. He had written this quickly. In a hurry.
Had Fletch’s letter prompted this? What else could it have been?
“I must see you…
I will come to Wiltshire…
My marriage to Cecily changes nothing…”
Theo had been giddy and hopeful as he’d run up the stairs. Now he was sick with misery.
Would George have left if Theo had not said those stupid, angry things last night? Or gone to see Prentice today? Or would none of that have made any difference? Would he always have gone to Oliver Fletcher in the end?
