December 14th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
Tom arrived close to dusk. Lucas followed Robert into the great entrance hall to greet him. Tom looked weary and travel-stained, his neckcloth limp, his coat creased, his jaw unshaven. Their eyes met. Tom gave a nod. A curt nod, not a casual, friendly nod.
“Glad to see you again,” Robert said, shaking Tom’s hand. “Heard the news yet?”
“What news?”
“You won’t believe it! None of us did. But I’ll let Lucas tell you. Make yourself at home, Tom.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder, and headed back to his study, his footsteps brisk.
Lucas and Tom looked at each other.
Emotions warred in Lucas’s breast—joy and sheer relief at seeing Tom again—and fear, because all the reasons he’d asked Tom to leave still existed. The drumbeat was loud in his head: Tom, Tom. He wanted to step towards Tom and hug him, heedless of the consequences—and he wanted to stay where he was and tell Tom that this had been a mistake and that Tom should go.
The moment lengthened, both of them silent. Tom’s lips were compressed and there was no merriment in his eyes.
He’s still angry with me. And regret joined the churning mix of emotions in Lucas’s breast. Regret that he’d angered Tom, that he’d hurt him, because the last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt Tom.
“Thank you for coming.” He offered the words awkwardly, diffidently.
Tom gave another short nod. “What news?”
“A letter from Tish.” Lucas fished it from his breast pocket and held it out.
Tom unfolded the letter and read swiftly. His eyebrows came together in a frown, and then climbed his forehead. He glanced at Lucas, as if for confirmation.
“She’s married your major. The announcement was in the newspapers today. Letitia Trentham and Icarus Reid.”
Tom looked back at the letter and read down to the bottom. “Tish and Reid,” he said, when he’d finished. “My God.” If he’d been angry before, he wasn’t angry now. He looked bemused, a little worried.
“She’s asked us to visit her on the way to Pendarve. I looked it up—Woodhuish—it’s not far out of the way. I thought we could . . . if you want to?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I do.” He handed the letter back. “Tish and Reid. My God.”
“I’ll send Smollet ahead to Pendarve.” Lucas nervously turned the letter over in his hands. “You and I can travel by post-chaise. Four days down to Devonshire, see Tish, then on to Pendarve.” Having uttered the words, he felt a spurt of panic. Alone. With Tom. And on the heels of panic was a stab of longing so intense that it hurt.
Tom’s eyes focused on him. He was no longer thinking of Tish and Major Reid; his attention was fully on Lucas.
The drumbeat in Lucas’s head became louder. “If . . . if you wish?”
Tom thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. Not a curt nod.
“Thank you for coming,” Lucas said again, almost a whisper.
This time, when he said it, Tom smiled at him. Not one of his wide, merry smiles—a small, lopsided smile, half sad, half wry—but it was still a smile.
The painful stab of longing came again and the drumbeat grew even louder, and counterpoint to those things was fear. We will be each other’s ruin. Lucas clutched the letter and literally trembled with the strength of his conflicting emotions.