Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

The coach rattled to a stop, and the occupants within groaned with relief. Charles bounced his knee in anticipation as he waited for the footman to drop the step and open the door. He had to get out. Now. If he didn’t get some relief, he was going to go stark raving mad.

Four hours trapped inside a coach seated next to a young woman and a teething infant was enough to fray his every last nerve. The woman had apologized profusely, growing increasingly red in the face and teary as the poor little lad squirmed and cried, miserable in his confinement and sore in the mouth.

Charles and the two gentlemen on the opposite bench did their best to be polite, but inside he felt as ready to scream as the baby. The last hour took the longest, and he was quite ready to climb out the window and hold onto the side, even in this bitter cold.

The footman rapped twice on the side of the coach and barked out, “Finchley! All out for Finchley!” Then he jerked open the door.

Charles all but stumbled out, letting the piercing cold hit his face. He took a grateful breath that burned his lungs, even as it chilled. Flipping the collar of his great coat up, he turned quickly and helped the young lady and her baby out of the coach.

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, the baby squalling in the cold. “So sorry.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, his patience restored now that he knew he was moments away from freedom. “Do you require assistance? I can help you to your door.”

“No need, sir. My mother is—mama—” The young woman all but sobbed as a lady in a fur-trimmed cape came bustling forward, arms outstretched.

“Darling, Mary!” The woman wrapped the mother and child in her arms, and they both took to speaking at once, coos of delight and moans of relief at being reunited.

Charles left them to it, stepping around the back of the coach to retrieve his traveling case. Damn, but this wind was bitter. He reached in the side pocket of his great coat, extracting a knit wool scarf, and wrapped it twice around his face, a little more protection against the chill. He now wished he’d opted to wear his fur-lined gloves, rather than the plain black leather. His knuckles felt stiff as stone. He was desperate to get home and thaw himself by the fire.

“Need any help there, sir?” called the footman.

“I can manage,” he replied, hefting his case by the leather strap. The coach had parked but a stone’s throw from the parsonage. Finchley Church loomed just beyond, the modest bell tower peeking up above the grey stone walls. He would be inside and warm in moments.

Steps from the front gate of the parsonage, Charles paused, glancing up and down Finchley high street. It was a busy afternoon, even in this miserable cold. The tink tink of a blacksmith’s hammer came from the smithy across the way. Charles was sure Mr. Forbes was hard at work within. A few loaded carts rolled down the street, heavy with produce or stacked high with hay. Children darted about—young lads throwing snowballs, a pair of village girls chasing a bleating sheep that slipped loose of its pen.

Watching the pastoral scene, Charles felt an ache somewhere just above his left ribs. It twinged so distinctly that he raised an absent hand, rubbing the spot. He swallowed down the ball of emotion sitting heavy in his throat. He’d missed this place. The quiet of it, the unhurried comfort of a small life. This village was as much a home to him as any place could be, and he missed it like a piece of his heart had been torn away. Now that he was back, his heartbeat felt more regular. He could breathe again.

Home is where the heart finds rest.

How often had his uncle said those words? Charles had never given them credence before. It had been five years since he called Finchley home. Three years since his last visit. He was sure he would find much changed, for life never stood still, but the essential things remained the same. A blacksmith wielded his hammer, farmers carted hay, and boys threw snowballs much too forcefully for the comfort of old Mrs. Tibbets.

Charles smiled behind his scarf as he watched the old lady come bustling out of her shop, wielding a broom. She brandished it at the boys, shrieking about the threat to her windows. Charles turned away with a soft chuckle, using one hand to lift the latch on the old blue gate that led through into the front garden of the parsonage.

A fine dusting of snow covered all the boxwoods planted along the high stone walls. His favorite bench was hidden under the drifts too. A decade of memories flooded him in a breath—reading on that bench in warm summers, climbing atop it with other village boys as they played crusaders, secret whispers in the dark, his back pressed against the hard stone—

Enough.

He took a shaky breath, dropping his gaze to his boots. Only the little cobblestone path from the gate to the front door had been cleared of snow. His boots crunched on the salt that protected against ice as he approached the door.

Setting his case down, he raised a gloved hand and grasped for the large brass door knocker. He rapped three times, hearing the echo of it around the eerily quiet garden. Snow always had that effect. It warped the senses, making every sound both too quiet and too loud.

He heard the latch lift moments before the door swung inward.

“Oh, my heavens,” Molly gasped, one hand over her mouth. Tears sprung instantly to her grey eyes.

Charles smiled down at his uncle’s loyal housemaid. The woman had served him for nigh on thirty years. She may be all of five feet in her tallest booted heels, but she was mightier than a hurricane. Frizzy grey curls framed her face under her pristine white mop cap. “Hello, Molly,” he murmured with all the warmth of feeling he could muster.

She lowered her hand from her mouth, blinking back her tears. “You came.”

“Did you doubt I would?”

This woman had raised him as much as Uncle Selby. She was his surrogate mother in all but name. He felt the sting of her sharp appraisal as she took him in from his top hat down to his boots. “I did,” she admitted, not unkindly. Damn, but this woman knew him better than he knew himself. “He’ll be that pleased to see you,” she added.

Charles let out a sharp breath. Relief flooded him that he wasn’t too late. “He still lives then?”

Molly stepped back to let him enter. “Aye, he lives. Heaven knows it would be a kindness unmatched if the Lord would see fit to bring him home. But until he does, we’re doing what we can for his comfort. Come, get yourself in. You can bring him his tea.”

Heart in his throat, Charles stepped over the threshold into his uncle’s house, knowing with an aching sense of surety that it would probably be for the last time. And he very much doubted Uncle Selby would be happy to see him again, as it was his uncle who demanded he leave and never come back.