With the promise to Bridget that he would spend the next couple of days going through her mother’s diary looking for clues as to the possible identity of ‘N’, Stephen set out later that day for Witley. He overnighted at the whitewashed public house The Running Mare before arriving at his father’s Surrey estate early the following afternoon.
As he rode up the long, dusty drive, a sudden thought took him. This wasn’t his father’s estate any longer.
It’s mine.
Pulling on the reins of his horse, Stephen slowed his mount to a walk. The same giant oak trees of his childhood still lined either side of the road leading to the main house. The low stone walls marked out the boundaries of the nearby fields.
The place didn’t appear to be much different from what he remembered, but the fact that he was having to rely on old, faded memories rather than recent ones pained him. It had been many years since last he was here.
This was his family home, yet it had never felt like it.
Term breaks spent with his friends and their families during his school days had shown him the truth of what had always been missing in his life. A loving mother and father.
“When are you ever going to stop grieving for something that was never yours? You can’t mourn the loss of a dream,” he muttered.
Some people were fortunate with relatives, others not. He just happened to be one of the latter.
He dug his heels in and urged his horse on. He wanted to spend the least amount of time here. To know the circumstances of his father’s death, hold a brief funeral service, and then get back to London.
Lady Bridget Dyson, the comely widow was counting on him.
I am keen to see her again.
Thoughts of running his fingers through the gentle curls of her long, pale hair quickly sent his mind to wicked places. To what an afternoon spent with the luscious blue-eyed Bridget could be like. Of setting his lips to her naked flesh.
Steady on.
A quick shake of the head had Stephen pushing that ridiculous notion away. Bridget Dyson was a client, nothing more. Though if he were honest, she was the most fetching client he had ever dealt with; but nevertheless, her family were still paying for his services.
Mister Granville, his father’s long-serving steward was waiting for him when Stephen made his way out of the stables and toward the manor house. There were quite a few more gray hairs and lines on his face since last, they had met, but Granville still had a sprightly manner about him. “Sir Stephen, it is good to see you. Though the circumstances could have been better.”
Stephen nodded. “Yes.”
There was no point in either of them making an attempt at flowery words of condolence. Having been a fixture at Moore Manor all of Stephen’s life, Granville had borne witness to the distance which had always existed between father and son. Firstly, by father, then as the years passed, by son.
“So, what happened?” asked Stephen.
Granville motioned toward the house. “Would you like to come inside, and we can discuss this in private?”
Stephen hated the house. It’s sandy-colored ashlar stone walls held nothing for him but cold, empty memories. “I would much rather we walk.”
At the end of the yard was a solid, wooden gate. Stephen opened it and stepped onto the lush green grass of the small high field which abutted the grounds of the house. In the distance more verdant pastures stretched out before his gaze. This was prime grazing land.
His father might have failed as a husband and a father, but he had chosen well when it came to be selecting someone to manage the Moore estate. Granville had excelled in his role.
A few yards inside the paddock, Stephen stopped and turned to Granville. “Well?”
The steward cleared his throat. “Your father hadn’t been spending much time here of late. Just the odd quick visit. When he suddenly arrived last week, it was obvious he was not well. He fell from his horse in the stable yard. We managed to get him inside, and that’s when we discovered his injuries.”
Stephen scowled. “Did he say where he sustained the knife wound? His lawyer mentioned an altercation of some sort. Was he stabbed in London or in a nearby town?”
If it had been somewhere close by, his father’s attempts to reach the estate would make sense.
“Apparently, it was outside of London. He didn’t say much of what had happened, other than he had got into a fight with another gentleman. It took him two days to get here, but he said he was determined to make it,” replied Granville.
Why come all the way here to die? What possible reason could he have had to return to Moore Manor when he was so badly wounded?
“I eventually convinced him to allow me to summon a doctor to come from Guildford, but by the time he arrived, it was too late. Your father passed away during the night.”
Stephen sighed. He could add ‘who had killed his father’ to the long list of queries he had been building since a child. Not that it mattered anymore. He was never going to get a single one of them answered, including the most pressing. The question which would forever haunt him.
I am your son, so why have you always hated me? As I can see, my only crime against you was being born.
“Where is my father now?”
“In the crypt at All Saints church. The vicar is pressing for us to get the burial service underway as soon as possible.”
Delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to do anyone any good. And Stephen wanted to leave for town first thing in the morning. The quicker he was away from this place, the better.
“Alright. Get whoever wants to come to the service assembled, and I shall meet you at the church in an hour,” replied Stephen.
“Very good, Sir Stephen. Shall I make a time for you and me to discuss estate matters and the transition of ownership?” replied Granville.
The old man is really dead. This place is now mine, but I just can’t think about it right now.
“Perhaps we should wait until I can find a moment to give things my full attention.”
Granville’s cheeks turned a scarlet red. “I humbly beg your pardon. That was most uncivilized of me. Of course, you wish to spend some time in quiet reflection of your father. I would never wish to impose on your hour of grief.”
Even the trusty old family steward seemed to expect Stephen to feel something over the loss of his father. Why society suddenly decided that all manner of customs and social dictates should come into play just because someone had died was beyond him.
I don’t feel anything.
Stephen wouldn’t be shedding any tears, nor wasting hours in silent regret. He had given up on that long ago, coming to the firm conclusion that none of it was worth his emotional energy.
It was time to set Granville straight on the sort of funeral Sir Robert Moore was going to get, as well as the amount of time his son intended to invest in mourning him.
“Let’s get the service done and my father buried. After which, I shall walk across the road into the White Hart and shout everyone there a whisky to toast the passing of Sir Robert. After that, I will return here, pack some papers, and make ready to head back to London at first light.”
His hand was on the gate before Granville finally mustered a reply. “I thought, perhaps . . . of course. Very good, Sir Stephen.”
Stephen’s long strides took him quickly back past the stables, toward the long drive. He wasn’t even going to bother with his horse.
Granville’s kind words had rattled him.
What he needed was a long walk, alone. Time away from people to check that the locks on his heart were secure—that emotions of any kind had not managed to find their way in.
Because if there was one thing Sir Stephen Moore was certain he wouldn’t ever do, it was to waste a single tear for a man who had never once called him son.