His father really was going to die, and the time for him to acknowledge it had come. But he could not help wondering exactly what they would find when they arrived at Rosecleer Manor, the home of his maternal ancestors. “I shall make contact with the housekeepers immediately. I shall write off to them today and ensure that the house is made ready for you.”
“I daresay the house will not be all that we are used to. After all, I have neglected it for so long and not even given the funds to have it properly maintained. But I am sure that the housekeepers have kept it as well as they can, and as long as it is warm and dry, it will be enough.”
Hunter had received written word from the housekeepers of Rosecleer Manor that the place would certainly be fit and ready for the Earl of Addison and his son by the time they arrived. In the end, the party had set off for Scotland less than two weeks after his father’s initial and somewhat surprising request.
Hunter and his father had travelled in relative comfort in their carriage, with the few staff they were taking with them travelling separately in another. Much apart from making his father any worse, the journey itself and the idea that he would soon be in the place he had once thought of as home seemed to fortify him somehow. In fact, it fortified him so much that Hunter nursed a secret hope that the physician had been wrong after all. Perhaps all his father had needed had been a change in surroundings and some good Scottish air.
However, within days of settling in at Rosecleer Manor, it quickly became obvious that this was not the case. The effects of the excitement of their excursion had simply been a temporary tonic to the man who was, Hunter knew, fading fast.
For himself, Hunter had found much sympathy with his father for his curiously fond feelings for the rundown manor house. The house itself, although large, was nothing in comparison to Addison Hall, the home in which Hunter had spent most of his life. However, Rosecleer Manor seemed to be a house of many nooks and crannies, of hidey-holes and secret spaces; perfect for a young boy whiling away his summers.
Hunter found that he was easily able to imagine his father there running through the corridors and finding much amusement in the old and forgotten things which had been tucked away by many generations of the Moss family in the vast attics.
“Tell me, have you enjoyed your time here?” his father said at the start of their sixth month at Rosecleer.
“Very much, Father,” Hunter said, although not entirely truthfully.
Whilst it had been a great honour to help his father fulfil his dying wishes, it had been a most bittersweet time for Hunter Bentley. And not only had he suffered the sadness of watching his father grow ever thinner and ever greyer, he had suffered a good deal of uncertainty of his own.
Felicity’s letters seemed to have grown shorter and shorter, and the time between the arrival of each one seemed to grow larger and larger.
The last of her letters had been a brief yet perfect account of an afternoon buffet at the home of one of her friends. There was nothing in her letter about Felicity herself, and nothing to say that she missed him at all. Worse still, that letter had arrived more than six weeks beforehand and, despite numerous missives of his own, it seemed that Felicity was not inclined to respond any further.
He had known, of course, that Felicity was far from pleased when he had told her of his plans for his father’s final weeks. They had argued a little when Hunter had suggested that her annoyance seemed somewhat selfish. After all, it was to be no more than a few weeks, and it was not just for Harrington Bentley’s sake alone. Hunter needed time and space to say goodbye to his excellent father, and he had wished at the time that Felicity could have understood.
However, by the time he and his father had set off for Edinburgh, the argument seemed to be done between them, and she had kissed him goodbye with watery eyes and heartfelt demands that he must write to her every day, if not twice.
Not a day had gone past when he hadn’t thought of her; her pale blonde hair the colour of straw and her eyes so blue that even the sky of a summer’s day could not compete. Felicity was the most beautiful woman Hunter had ever known and, at three and twenty years, she was certainly ready to marry.
Hunter had courted her since she had been one and twenty and had assumed that they would soon be married. It had been a very long time since each had declared their love for the other, and it had only been the gap of almost ten years in their ages which had made Hunter a little reticent. He had known many young ladies over the years, and he saw how quickly their affections changed when they were still full young. As keen as he had been to make the beautiful only daughter of the Earl of Walney his wife, Hunter had wanted to be sure that the much sought-after young woman was absolutely decided upon him and him alone.
As each day passed without a letter, Hunter began to regret his thoughtfulness in that regard. He had begun to wish that he had simply proposed to her within their first year and married soon after, making her his irrefutably.
But surely Felicity had been true to him, despite the fact that they had made no public announcement of their intentions. Hunter had never considered a need to do such a thing, believing the bond between them to be strong, and the need for such pronouncements unnecessary. Surely they were going to marry; surely that was something that they had both understood.
“I think it will not be long before you see her again.” His father had broken across his reverie as if he were reading his mind.
“I beg your pardon, Father?”
“I take it there is still no letter from Felicity?”
“No, but I believe she has been in London for a good deal of the Season and so will have been busy,” Hunter spoke without any conviction whatsoever.
“I am sure that is so, my boy.” It had been many days since Harrington Bentley had been able to sit in the small and cozy drawing room at Rosecleer Manor.
He had been confined to his bed after a fit of coughing had made him so exhausted he could no longer sit up. And it seemed to Hunter that the longer his father kept to his bed, the less likely that he would ever take his armchair in the drawing room again.
“Well, I shall perhaps write off to her this evening and give her our latest news.”
“I daresay there will be little news to give her. I suppose there is not much of interest which happens here at Rosecleer Manor.”
“Well, I do not mind that at all. It is a most restful place, Father, and I have enjoyed being here.”
“But you will be pleased to get home again,” his father said with a smile.
“I am content.” It was all that Hunter could say.
Inasmuch as he did want to return home to Addison Hall and find out exactly what had gone wrong between him and Felicity, he knew that his return could only mean one thing; that his father had died.