Chapter Two

Lieutenant Stephen St. Giles paused to get his bearings. He had often been on foot in the wilds of Spain and Portugal and managed to return to camp but never in such a beastly fog. It would be embarrassing to lose his way within striking distance of his ancestral home, but this mist was deceptive. Landmarks he thought he recognized proved to be something else, not a cottage but a sheepfold, not a path but a stream, hence the wet boots which were now freezing his feet. He blew out a breath and watched he droplets condense in the wet air. His dark green rifleman's uniform glistened with beads of moisture.

He supposed the area had changed much in the four years he had been in the rifle corp. Even trees grew up. But the road should not have moved. Every landmark seemed to betray his memory. If not for the death of Henry he might not have come back.

His departure from home had been wrought with despair and guilt, brought on by his father pushing him away as though he wished to disown him. He could not understand his father's behavior, but he must have offended him in some way that was lost to him. The fog was a good metaphor for his last months at Summerhill, fraught with confusion and misdirection.

His time in Spain gave him back his confidence. Putting his skills to use, Stephen had felt valued for his marksmanship, his willingness to take risks, to out think the enemy. He'd had friends there. The news of Henry's death had been bitter, especially conveyed in a letter from the family solicitor rather than a parent. The death notice had contained no details. Stephen had asked for leave and his captain insisted he return to England.

Though he had heard of his brother's death from Mr. Chadwick, their neighbor and solicitor, he'd had no word about it from home. In a way that was not odd, since only Henry wrote to him. What could Stephen have done to alienate both his parents?

After he'd fallen in a ditch a while back, he should have stayed at the coaching inn with the other passengers waiting for the fog to lift, but the possibility of getting home by Christmas Eve had tempted him to imprudence. He must speak to his mother. And would Jane be there with her parents? Did he dare hope? He considered the possibility that Henry had married her, but had not wanted to tell him.

He might have to swallow his pride, if he saw any inhabited dwelling at all, and ask the way. He stopped to catch his breath and looked around him in a circle for any inviting light or even a rooftop. The only peaks he saw could have been the tops of pine trees. Better off staying on the rutted track. He trudged forward, feeling the road as best he could with his feet and trying to recall if any of it seemed familiar. However, he had never walked. He'd always been riding or driving a carriage. He had done plenty of marching these last four years, so even if he were going in the wrong direction or in circles he kept warm by moving quickly.

He thought about Henry and how much he owed him. His brother had tried to keep their father from forcing him to take a position in the army. His brother had meant well, but he was thankful he had not been sent to the university as Henry suggested with the church as his goal. He could not see himself filling that role. In the army his marksmanship had made a difference. The war was won or nearly so. It was after they had crossed the Pyrenees and won that desperate battle at St. Pierre in France that Chadwick's letter caught up with him and won him the leave he had not asked for in years. He dreaded seeing his father again, and Summerhill would never be the same without Henry. At least his mother would welcome him.

With six years separating them in age, he'd been a child to Henry when he'd left. Now that he was twenty-two he would have savored Henry's companionship.

He'd had a good life in the army, but he had given something up, his youth. The mystery of his expulsion from Summerhill still haunted him. What if he was not welcome? He'd gotten precious few letters from Henry, none from his mother and father. He wondered if any of his missives had reached his mother. She might think him dead. It might have been better if he had waited at the inn and sent a messenger to announce his arrival.

Stephen suddenly saw a gate emerge from the brutal fog and recognized the stone work on either side of the wrought iron. It belonged to the churchyard and was adorned by a pine wreath and red bow, a welcome mark of the season. Now he knew where he was and not more than half an hour from home. But something stopped him.

He swung the gate open and walked though the mist to the St. Giles plots. There was fresh earth in one spot, cementing the tragedy into reality in his mind. He was too late for Henry, possibly too late for his mother and probably too late for Jane. He should have thought of all this before he agreed to the army as his escape.