Piers Duval, Lord Dolphinstone—Dolph to his friends—leaned his head against the glass of the carriage window, straining to catch his first glimpse of Dolphin Court. Home. As the familiar building came into view across the valley, his throat thickened with a mix of guilt, dread and joy.
He had missed home and his three children more than he’d ever thought possible during the long months away. Within that churning mix of emotions, guilt gained the upper hand—he should never have stayed away so long, not when the children had just lost their mother. The guilt intensified. When the request had come for him to join Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, in Vienna, he had grabbed the excuse of duty with both hands and had rushed off to Europe rather than face the bewilderment of two young boys whose mother was there one day and gone the next. Matilda had thankfully been too young to grasp the catastrophic change in all their lives. Dolph had selfishly fled his own guilt and grief, unable to cope with reliving each and every day that had led up to Rebecca’s death, wondering in despair what he could have said or done differently. Wondering what signals he overlooked. Wondering how he could have stopped her.
He’d thought Rebecca was content with her life. Theirs had been an arranged marriage—they’d rubbed along together well enough, but they’d never been in love. Whatever that meant. Maybe he was incapable of loving anyone? After they’d wed, Dolph’s life had continued much as before, with extended stays in London due to his interest in politics and government, and, when he was home, with the estates. Rebecca disliked London and had seemed happy to remain in Somerset. Looking back, he realised they had never really talked in depth about their lives or their feelings or their expectations of the other.
And his wife had been more unhappy than he had ever imagined.
Swamped by guilt, he’d been incapable of comforting his children after Rebecca died. Hell, he’d barely been able to look at them, knowing how badly he’d let down his entire family. So, he’d appointed a governess for the boys and he had left, convinced they’d all be better off without him.
‘You’re quiet, old fellow.’
Dolph straightened, pushing away from the window and from his inner turmoil, and eyed his travelling companion, George, Lord Hinckley, in whose carriage they travelled and who had been quick to accept Dolph’s invitation to convalesce at the Court after a duel left him fighting a life-threatening infection.
‘You must be eager to see the children again after all this time,’ George continued. ‘I can only apologise once more for further delaying your return.’
Dolph huffed a laugh. ‘It was not entirely your fault—Tamworth has always been a hothead, but it was lunacy for him to challenge you over one waltz with Miss Andrews.’
‘And lunacy for me to accept his challenge?’ George’s left arm rested in a sling to protect the shoulder pierced by Tamworth’s sword. ‘I did attempt to appease him, but he was spoiling for a fight and there’s only so many insults a fellow can take.’
Dolph refrained from pointing out Tamworth would not have taken such exception had George refrained from flirting quite so outrageously with Miss Andrews. That comment would achieve nothing. George was a known flirt who fell in and out of love with alarming regularity, but his flirtations were never serious, and Tamworth, had he been thinking straight, knew it. Dolph had arrived back in London in time to act as George’s second and had then felt obliged to remain with his old friend until his life was out of danger.
‘I wonder if the children will recognise you,’ George continued, reviving Dolph’s fear the boys would never forgive him for abandoning them. ‘How long is it since you’ve seen them?’
Too long. ‘Sixteen months.’
It had been a long haul. Dolph had joined the British delegation in Vienna in October. He had been just one member of the delegation assisting firstly Castlereagh and then the Duke of Wellington in their endeavours to negotiate a long-term peace plan for Europe after twenty-three years of almost continuous war. And then had come the news of Napoleon’s escape, and the appalling carnage at Waterloo, followed by weeks and months in Paris to negotiate a definitive peace treaty between France and the four Allied powers of Great Britain, Austria, Prussia and Russia.
‘The boys will recognise me, but Matilda was only three months old when—’ He swallowed down the pain. When Rebecca died. ‘When I left.’
Guilt stabbed him again. If only he had noticed the depths her moods had sunk to...the implications of her state of mind...he might have been able to stop her. To save her. He thrust that thought away. Officially, it had been an accident, and she had lost her footing as she walked on Dolphin Point.
Only Dolph knew the truth that Rebecca had taken her own life just three short months after giving birth to the daughter she had always longed for. He had destroyed the incoherent, rambling letter she had left him, aghast at how low she had sunk without him even noticing, her words seared into his brain. She had not blamed him. She had, heartbreakingly, blamed herself. Convinced herself he and the children would all be better off without her.
But he was to blame. If he had spent much less time away in London and more time with his young family when at home—and less time preoccupied with estate business—then surely he would have noticed. He could have stopped her. And it seemed he had learned nothing, for, rather than stay at home with the children after Rebecca’s suicide, he had run away like a coward.
The call to go to Vienna had appeared to come at exactly the right time, allowing him to escape the tragedy. He now saw, however, that it had come at the very worst time, giving him the perfect excuse—patriotic duty—to avoid the difficult and painful aftermath of Rebecca’s death.
He had, eventually, dealt with his grief, but his guilt at abandoning his children remained—hence the mix of joy at the prospect of seeing them again and the dread they would never forgive him. But at least—according to Mr Pople, his estate steward, who wrote regularly to update Dolph on all matters pertaining to Dolphin Court—the boys were thriving in the care of Miss Thame, the governess he’d appointed before he left. So at least he’d got that right.
After the Paris Treaty had been signed in November, Dolph had hoped to be home for Christmastide, but a bout of influenza had delayed his journey, and then bad weather—with winds whipping up such a fury that ships lay hunkered in port rather than risk the English Channel—had delayed it some more. Once he’d reached London, George’s escapade had delayed him still further, and here they were, already at the end of January.
Now was his chance to make amends, however. He intended to sacrifice his interest in politics and stay in Somerset for the sake of the children. Henceforth, they and they alone would be his priority.
He turned to George. ‘We’re almost there. How’s your shoulder?’
‘Still a bit stiff and sore, but I should soon be able to discard this sling. It has helped cushion my shoulder during the journey, however; the roads down here are shockingly full of potholes, my friend. I wonder you don’t repair ’em.’
Dolph laughed. ‘You cannot hold me responsible for the state of the entire road from Bristol to Westcliff.’
His laugh disturbed the third occupant of the carriage. Wolf lifted his great, shaggy head and gazed worshipfully at Dolph while his tail thumped gently on the floor. Dolph scratched Wolf’s ear, and the dog’s head lowered back to his paws as he heaved a sigh. He’d first met Wolf—full name Wolfgang—in the Augarten in Vienna, where his owner, Herr Friedrich Lueger, walked him every day.
The two men had struck up a friendship, enjoying many and varied discussions about the world, life and their place in it. It had been Herr Lueger who helped Dolph understand that burying his emotions beneath the business of the day was merely delaying the time when he must come to terms with Rebecca’s suicide. By then, however, he had been fully embroiled in the Congress, and his patriotic urge to do his duty for his country had prevented him leaving until he was no longer needed to help navigate a diplomatic route through the turmoil Napoleon had left through vast swathes of the continent.
His heart ached at the memory of Herr Lueger, who, one day, had missed his daily constitutional in the park. After he’d failed to turn up for several days running, Dolph had gone to the building where Herr Lueger had rooms to discover he had died. The landlady had informed him, tersely, that the dog wasn’t her responsibility, and she had turned him out. Several hours’ searching had found Wolf, and Dolph had adopted him as his own.
The carriage rocked to a halt and Dolph yawned and stretched, thankful to reach the end of the journey. He gazed up at the Court. Home. He flung the door wide and leapt down onto the gravelled forecourt, followed by Wolf, before lowering the carriage steps for George, and then turned again to the house, the front door still firmly shut. Maybe he should have written to inform them of the exact day of his arrival, but he had wanted to surprise the children. All was quiet and still—hardly surprising at four o’clock when the light was fading... The children were no doubt indoors with their governess, maybe listening to a story by the fire.
Then a whoop split the air, and a young lad hurtled around the far corner of the house, closely followed by a younger boy shouting, ‘Wait, Stevie. Wait for me.’
Dolph’s heart leapt. Steven and Nicholas. His sons.
Dear God, how they have grown.
Dolph watched, enthralled, as his eldest son turned at his brother’s plea and waited for him to catch up. He grabbed Nicholas’s hand, and then, without looking up, he set off at a run, tugging Nicholas behind him, straight towards Dolph, who dropped his hand to Wolf’s collar in case the dog should become too excited.
It was Nicholas who noticed the carriage, men and dog first, and he stopped, pulling Steven to a halt, pointing ahead, his eyes big with wonder. At that moment, a woman carrying another child puffed around the corner. Matilda. Love exploded through Dolph. His three children. Safe and well. He frowned. The woman...she looked familiar, but she was not Miss Thame and neither was she one of his servants. He could not fully recall the governess’s features—they had only met the once, at her interview—but she had been uncommonly tall for a woman, and slender. The woman carrying Matilda was short and plump, and as she spotted Dolph, she jerked to a halt, her expression a picture of dismay. Dolph’s eyes narrowed in recognition of Philippa Strong, daughter of the local vicar.
What the Devil is she doing here, and where is Miss Thame? And why does she have Matilda as well as the boys?
He employed a nursemaid to care for the baby so the governess could concentrate on Steven and Nicholas. Perhaps she was ill?
Dolph released Wolf and strode forward. ‘Hold him, will you, George?’ he snapped over his shoulder. But almost at once, he slowed. To reach Miss Strong and demand answers, he must pass his sons, who clung together, their eyes wide.
He reined in his exasperation and paused next to them. ‘Well, Steven? Well, Nicholas? Do you recognise your papa?’
‘Yes, F-Father. W-welcome home.’ Steven, trying to be grown up at seven years of age. Let down by the quiver of his lower lip.
The urge to drop to his knees and to gather his sons to him in a hug was constrained by a surge of awkwardness. He’d been a somewhat distant father before he’d gone away, in the same way he’d been a distant husband. Uncertainty wound through him. What if he scared them? What if they didn’t want to be hugged? What if he made them cry? Instead of following his instinct, he patted each boy on the head.
‘Thank you, Steven. I am happy to be here.’ His heart ached at the wariness in both boys’ expressions. Miss Strong reached them at that moment.
‘Lord Dolphinstone,’ she puffed. ‘Good afternoon. And welcome home. Leah...that is, Miss Thame...did not say you would arrive home today.’
Dolph bowed. This was not Miss Strong’s fault. At least she was looking after his children, unlike the women he paid to care for them.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Strong. I do not deny I am surprised to find you here. Would you care to explain?’
As he spoke, he reached out a tentative hand to touch Matilda’s cheek with his forefinger. So soft. So pretty, with a mop of fair curls just like her mother’s. Matilda jerked away from Dolph’s touch and hid her face against Miss Strong’s shoulder. She was a year and seven months now, and he was a stranger to her. He did not even know if she was walking yet. He glanced back at the boys, still clutching one another where they had stopped.
‘I...um...well...’
Miss Strong’s voice faded as a yellow bounder bowled up the carriageway at a reckless pace and swung into the forecourt. The postilions reined their mounts to a steaming halt. Dolph frowned. A glance at Miss Strong revealed her relief. Before either of the postilions dismounted, Dolph strode to the door of the post-chaise and flung it wide. He recognised Miss Thame in an instant, with her scraped-back red hair, her pale, freckled skin and her large, wide-set eyes, although he recalled neither the brilliance of those same eyes nor the soft curve of her lips, parted in a gasp of surprise before they firmed. In that first moment their gazes collided, her eyes darkened until her pupils were ringed by the narrowest band of turquoise and Dolph’s breath caught in his lungs.
‘My Lord! I... I did not know you were expected home today.’ Guilt danced across her expression as her cheeks flushed.
‘That, Miss Thame, is patently obvious.’ He held out his hand to assist her from the vehicle, ruthlessly quashing an inexplicable urge to close his fingers around hers. ‘We will discuss this inside.’
By the time he closed the door and turned, Miss Thame had crouched down and Steven and Nicholas had run to her, clinging to her. Pain pierced Dolph as he took in the tableau—the scene he had wanted to create with his sons played out before his eyes with their governess.
‘We missed you, Miss Thame,’ Steven said. ‘Miss Strong made me read the Bible!’
‘Stevie...you know very well we study the Bible every Wednesday morning.’
Morning? She’s been gone all day?
Dolph frowned. How often did she leave the boys like this? And why?
‘Miss Strong was following my instructions,’ Miss Thame said, before addressing the vicar’s daughter. ‘Miss Strong... I have arranged with the post boys to drop you at the vicarage on their way back to Bristol, as they pass through the village.’
She rose gracefully to her feet. She was as tall and as slender as Dolph remembered, even clad in that dull cloak, which parted at the front to reveal a gown in a becoming shade of blue. Willowy, that was how he would describe her if ever called upon to do so. He tore his gaze from her, confused. What the Devil was wrong with him, noticing such things about his sons’ governess?
I’m weary from the journey. I’m confused...seeing the children again... I am not myself.
‘Thank you so much for standing in my stead,’ Miss Thame was saying as she took Matilda from Miss Strong. ‘I shall see you at church on Sunday.’
She took charge effortlessly, while he stood there, mute, like a visitor to his own home. Dolph shook himself, mentally, and stepped forward.
‘Thank you, Miss Strong.’ He handed her into the post-chaise.
‘Thank you, my lord. And welcome home again.’ She smiled shyly, and her gaze slid past him. ‘I do hope your friend’s arm is soon better.’
George! He’d forgotten all about him. Dolph glanced around, to find George—his hand still on Wolf’s collar—smiling engagingly at Miss Strong, his eyes bright. Dolph’s heart sank, knowing it only took a shapely ankle, a pair of fine eyes or a tinkling laugh to turn George’s head, and he made a mental note to warn George off Miss Strong—a country vicar’s daughter would be unprepared for the kind of flirtations a more worldly girl would take in her stride.
He turned again to Miss Thame, who stood quietly waiting for his attention, Matilda hugged close and the boys clinging to her cloak. Irritation that he understood none of this made him brusque.
‘I suggest you resume your duties by taking charge of the children, Miss Thame, and allow my guest and I the chance to go indoors and recover from our journey. We will talk later about where you have been and why you saw fit to leave my children with a woman not in my employ.’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘As you wish, my lord. Come, boys.’
He watched her walk to the front door and stop to speak to Palmer, the butler, who was now waiting at the open front door. A groom, alerted by the arrivals, had appeared to direct George’s coachman, Winters, to the stables.
‘Well!’ George broke the silence. ‘I am exceedingly happy I accepted your invitation, Dolph. Miss Strong is a gem, is she not? No chance of me getting bored now.’
He grinned happily and Dolph heaved an inner sigh; George was truly irrepressible.
‘Come. Let us go inside.’
He shivered, suddenly aware of how the temperature had dropped while they had been standing there. The wind had picked up, bringing with it the salty tang of the nearby Bristol Channel, and he shivered again. Not, this time, at the cold but at the memories. He thrust them aside, greeting Palmer as they went indoors. The butler closed the front door behind them.
The entrance hall looked the same. Palmer looked and sounded the same. Everything was familiar, and yet unfamiliar because Rebecca was not there. The reality of her loss rose closer to the surface than at any time during the past sixteen months—his grief might have eased, but guilt still hovered like a black spectre at the edges of his mind. He still woke up in a cold sweat some nights, haunted by how unhappy and confused Rebecca had been and tormented by his own failure to see it.
The sound of Palmer clearing his throat interrupted his thoughts, and Dolph realised he had omitted to inform his household, not only of his arrival today, but also that George would be accompanying him.
‘Please prepare a bedchamber for Lord Hinckley, Palmer. He will be staying with us until he returns to London for the start of the Season.’
George would be fully recovered by then and would be loath to miss the balls and parties and other entertainments. Dolph, however, had no interest in such frivolity and had barely looked at a woman since Rebecca’s death. Indeed, the very notion of marrying again made him shudder. How could he face that responsibility? Look how he had neglected Rebecca. What if he was incapable of making any woman happy? Guilt continued to haunt him. Had he driven her to such a drastic solution? Had life with him been such a trial?
It was too late now to compensate for his inadequacy as a husband, other than to vow never to risk destroying any other woman’s life. All that mattered now was his determination to redress his failings as a father.
Palmer bowed. ‘Mrs Frampton is already preparing the guest room with the maids, my lord. We saw you arrive. And there is hot water upstairs already for you both.’
‘Thank you, Palmer.’
‘And the dog, my lord?’ Palmer’s tone made his opinion of Wolf absolutely clear.
Dolph bit back a grin as he ruffled Wolf’s head. ‘Get used to him, Palmer. He is here to stay.’
‘Very well, my lord.’
Dolph could feel peace and contentment hovering. Tentative feelings as yet, maybe—he might feel awkward with his children and he might still have his guilt to cope with, but it was good to be home.