George cleared his throat and tried not to think about the missed time in which those changes had been wrought. Then he looked closer at the pair’s gloves and bonnets. “You are going out?”
Mother waved the question away. “It is nothing of importance. We had planned on a shopping excursion to Bentmoor. Nothing that cannot be put off for another day.”
With that, she turned to the doorway to call out orders to the servants. A voice from his memory called out to him.Hervoice. That familiar cadence and tone she’d always employed when chiding him for some fit of ignorance that kept him blind to those around him. It prodded him to examine his sister.
Evelyn attempted a light countenance, but her bright temperament dimmed and her smile grew forced, which was not what a brother wished to see when returning home after such a long separation. It took no effort to decipher the source of her discontent, and with his conscience prodding him, George called out to his mother.
“There is no need to alter your plans,” he said with a dismissive wave. “After so much travel, I would love to stretch my legs.”
After riding the entire morning, George hardly needed any exercise; if his legs required anything, it was a rest. To say nothing of the utter apathy he felt towards shopping or the long drive he’d have to endure both to and from Bentmoor. However, it was a small price to pay to see Evelyn smile once more.
Mother studied him with narrowed eyes, though she made no further move to order the carriage sent back to the stables.
“As you wish, George,” she said, motioning for the pair to follow as she led them to the conveyance.
Hervoice rang through his thoughts again, and George smiled at it, even as a pang echoed through the emptiness in his heart. A man is master of his thoughts, yet his had a mind of its own, determined to recall that sound, though it had been some time since he’d heard her speak. Perhaps it was some great failing that he had so little control, but ridding himself of the memory ofherrequired far more determination than George possessed.
“You look quite pensive,” said Evelyn, sliding close to take his arm as they made their way to the front door.
“My life is full of upheaval at present,” he replied with a half-grin. “Is it any wonder I should look so?”
“Your expression reminded me of Papa when he is lost deep in his thoughts.”
Mother cast a glance at them from over her shoulder and gave them both a warm smile. “The same could be said of you, Evelyn.”
Bumping up against her brother, the young lady asked, “And how was your journey?”
There was little of interest to relay on that account, but George did so all the same as they bundled themselves into the carriage. As he was in the rear-facing seat, he had an unobstructed view of Farleigh Manor as they rolled down the drive. Built over the generations in a manner that, at best, could be described as piecemeal, Farleigh was cobbled together with different styles that hardly went together. One wing had stone that had a touch of cream to the color; another was solid gray. One bit had an Elizabethan air to it, whilst the front was clearly inspired by the Greeks.
But it suited his family.
His family. Two simple words, yet they filled George to bursting. His home. His family. All the weeks leading up to this return did not compare to the true pleasure he felt at sitting across from his mother and sister; his whole being felt lighter than the passing breeze.
George’s gaze fell to his mother and sister, his thoughts only half on the conversation as they plied him with questions about his plans; there was little to share, so it required little thought to respond, but it was difficult to concentrate when seated across from two of his favorite people in the world. It had been far too long since he’d visited Devon.
Home at last.
Shifting in his seat, George tried to ignore the unhappy twist of his insides. There was no need to pay it any heed, as there was nothing wrong with feeling relief at being among his loved ones again. Juliette wouldn’t have spared a moment’s guilt over seizing that which she wanted, so there was no need for George to harbor any such feelings. Nor would he allow guilt to dim a beautiful summer day.
There was so much to say and so many things to hear. Letters were better than silence, but they never matched the pleasure that came from hearing his sister and mother’s words from their own lips. The road passed quickly by, and before George could blink, they arrived in the village of Bentmoor.
Compared to Manchester, this corner of Devon was a piddly little town with hardly more than a few dozen shops serving as its heart. But there was a beauty to Bentmoor that his previous home could never mimic. Gone were the factories and mills that, though they provided a certain sort of vitality and energy, cast a pall over the area. People didn’t choke the streets, shouting and shoving as they vied for their space in the world.
No doubt his associates and neighbors in Manchester would call Bentmoor “quaint,” which implied “picturesque” and “charming” but was spoken with a tone that meant “inconsequential” and “backward.” To townsfolk, provincial life was akin to desolation, though after several years living among the city’s chaos, George couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here. Surely the smell of flowers and growing things was preferable to soot and smoke.
“I do hope there are people about this afternoon,” said Evelyn, her gaze shooting from right to left as the carriage stopped before the haberdashery.
“I would say there are,” said George, nodding towards all the others scattered along the road. But leaning closer to Mother, he whispered, “I assume she is hoping to see to a particular someone.”
“How have you guessed?” she replied with a dollop of wry humor.
Though her tone did not require an answer, George gave one all the same. “Perhaps because Evelyn mentioned Mr. Townsend a dozen times during our drive here.”
Despite their discussion of her, Evelyn did not notice the conversation as she was preoccupied with searching the street around them.
“I fear she is already smitten,” said Mother. “What she hasn’t said is that he seems intrigued by her as well. He called on us the day after the picnic and has been making overtures of courtship.”
George’s brows shot up, his grin stretching wide. “Is he a good sort?”
