Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

“So, how was dinner last night?” asked Uncle Selby. The man sat nestled in his bed, perched atop a pile of down pillows, surrounded by creature comforts. He had a little tray across his lap stacked with correspondence, his favorite daily devotional book, and a plate of half-eaten breakfast.

Charles sent up a little prayer of relief to see his uncle so well-tended. It eased him to know that, even as Selby suffered in body, he was contented in spirit. Charles would have to pay special attention to finding something nice for Molly as a Christmas gift.

“Dinner was…odd,” he admitted, setting aside his tea.

Uncle Selby peered over his glasses at him. “Odd? How so?”

As soon as he said the words aloud, Charles regretted opening the door to this conversation. He didn’t feel much like talking about it. But now he’d said it and Uncle Selby was looking at him in that way. “Mr. Burke was odd,” he explained. “I don’t think the man likes me very much.”

“Tosh. Everyone likes you,” Uncle Selby replied. “You’re a likable boy. Always so friendly and obliging. What cause should Burke have to dislike you?”

Charles just shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. But it seemed as though he was angry with me.” He cleared his throat. “At least Norland was obliging. And the duchess, of course.” A smile quirked his lips. “It feels strange to call him ‘Norland’ now.”

Uncle Selby echoed his smile. “Seasons come, and seasons go,” he intoned. “He’ll make a good Duke of Norland. Redoubtable. Strong.”

Charles nodded. Redoubtable. Such an excellent word to describe James Corbin. “He told me about the fire.”

“Yes, such a terrible business,” his uncle replied with a tisk. “Chimney fire. It took down a whole row. At least thirteen families. The Carter’s and the Brandt’s…the poor Millson’s. And Paul Millson was already suffering from that broken leg from last season. I don’t know how they’ll manage now.” He gave a sad shake of his head.

“Norland asked me to see the families while I’m here. Would you mind? I don’t want to encroach on you or Mr. Hoxley—”

Uncle Selby sat forward. “Oh, but it’s a wonderful idea,” he replied. “I’m only ashamed I didn’t think of it myself. Hoxley has been that pressed for help. Oh, Charles, will you? It would mean that much to the poor families to hear some kind words. You could work with Molly to whip up some baskets and take them round to the families that were resettled nearer to Finchley, save Hoxley a trip out from Carrington. I’m sure Her Grace would assist you. I wish I was feeling stout enough to take them myself. I ought to—”

“You ought to rest,” Charles countered. “No one expects you to go trudging around in the depths of winter delivering baskets. Leave it to me to spend a morning freezing my cock off.”

Uncle Selby chuckled, but the sound died quickly as he turned his tired gaze to glance warily out the window. “This winter has been terrible indeed. I can scarce remember feeling a sharper chill in the air. Molly says we’ll get snow again tonight. Her mother says we’re to expect a blizzard any day now.”

Charles smirked. “And you take the word of Molly’s mother?”

Uncle Selby leveled his gaze at him over his wire-rimmed glasses. “The talents of Constance Evans to predict the weather run positively occult, my boy. If she says to ready for snow, then we shall stack our wood, place the candles, and prepare to nestle in.”

Charles set aside his cup of tea. “I’ll ask Molly what I might do to help with preparations.”

“If you could see to the baskets before the snow falls, that would ease my mind so greatly,” Uncle Selby replied. “All those poor families made homeless. And at Christmas too.”

“I’ll speak to the duke about it directly.”

He raised a curious brow. “You will?”

“Aye, he asked me to call again this morning,” Charles explained, getting to his feet. “Said he had more to discuss with me.”

Uncle Selby sat back with a wide grin. “Well, look at you. Off to a meeting with the Duke of Norland, casual as you like.”

Charles rolled his eyes, leaning down to adjust the blanket folded over his uncle’s socked feet. “He may wear the title now, but at the end of the day, he is still the same James who used to team up with David to flick walnuts at me in church.”

“Ahh, yes. I remember.” Uncle Selby leaned back. “If my memory serves, it was a young Master Burke who came to your aid, did he not?”

Charles huffed a laugh. “He did at that. He always kept an eye out for me. He and Warren chased them with sticks ‘round the cemetery. Told them to pick on someone their own size—”

They both sank into a sharp silence as the name that ought to have remained unspoken echoed louder than a bell. Charles chewed his bottom lip, not daring to look up.

After a moment, Uncle Selby cleared his throat, shuffling the stack of correspondence on his tray. “And here was you saying Mr. Burke disliked you, when we both remember how well he looked after you in those early days.”

Charles let out a breath. Was it possible Uncle Selby was choosing to move past it without comment? “That was many years ago now, sir,” he replied, tidying up his place and adding his used tea things to the tray for Molly. “If I’ve done something to offend, I’ll put it right with him.”

“Good. There’s nothing Norland likes worse than an atmosphere.”

Charles nodded, checking the time on the mantle clock. He needed to be on his way to meet the duke by ten o’clock. “I imagine I’ll be back in time for lunch,” he said. “Perhaps we can play another round of chess this afternoon?”

“I’d like that.” Uncle Selby nestled himself back against his pillows with a tired sigh.

Charles made it all the way to the door before his uncle’s soft voice called out.

“He’s going to come for you.”

Charles stilled, one hand on the knob of the door. He didn’t dare turn around.

“I half expected him to barge his way in here already, running to your side the moment he heard you were back in town.”

Charles could scarcely draw breath. This was the risk he ran in coming home again. He’d managed to stay away for three years at his uncle’s behest. Three long, lonely years. He’d suffered, true enough. He missed his life in Finchley. He missed his friends, the sense of community and history he felt in this place. And poor Uncle Selby suffered right along with him. No visits home. No birthdays or Christmases. Not for three years.

And it was all for the sake of avoiding him. The boy who stole Charles’s young heart away. The man who squeezed until it shattered, leaving nothing behind but broken shards.

Charles didn’t turn around. He couldn’t bear to see the fear written on his uncle’s face, the disappointment, the worry. Poor Selby had enough to deal with. He didn’t need to be worried about Charles too.

“He won’t come here,” he said, his voice gruff. “There is nothing between us now. It’s been three years of silence, sir. Not one letter exchanged, not one glance. I told you I could cut him out, and I did.” He couldn’t help himself. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting his uncle’s tired gaze. God damn the man, he had tears in his eyes. Charles sucked in a shaky breath. “Uncle, please…”

“He will come,” Uncle Selby murmured. “He always comes for you. The heart knows no passing of time. But he is your Eurydice. He exists to be your temptation, Charles. Turn away. Do not let him lure you back down into the darkness, back to the world of carnal sin.”

With his breath held tight in his chest, Charles gave a curt nod and fled his uncle’s bedroom. Shutting the door with a soft snap, he slid along it until he reached the wall. In the quiet of the hallway, he closed his eyes and let out his breath through pursed lips.

“I will not be tempted,” he murmured to himself, repeating the words in a quiet chant as he descended the back stairs.

He passed Molly and the young maid in the kitchen, giving them a nod as he helped himself to his great coat, hat, scarf, and fur-lined gloves.

“Be back in time for luncheon,” Molly called. “I’m making ham tarts!”

He gave a muffled response, wrapping the thick wool scarf twice around his neck. Flipping the collar of his great coat up against the wind, he snatched up his walking stick and slipped out the back door. A gust of wintry wind pierced his cheeks and brow like so many little needles. Ready to brave the cold, he curled his hands into tight fists, striding out across the back garden.

He didn’t make it three steps before he stilled like a rabbit caught in a snare. His heart stopped, then it all but burst, hammering so fast he had to take a literal gasp of air. His hand clenched tight around the top of his walking stick as he blinked twice, his eyes watering in the sharp cold.

But there was no mistaking what his eyes saw. John Warren was standing at the back gate.