“Then I’ll be careful on the turns,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Hen.” Julian shook his head. “I’ve promised your family to deliver you safely to Lady Cheswick. I won’t shirk that responsibility.”
“Since when did you become such a stick in the mud?” she asked.
He arched a brow. “I won’t rise to that, Hen.”
She pouted for a moment in silence, miffed that he refused her the ribbons. “Given your state of affairs, I wonder that you even purchased such an extravagant vehicle in the first place,” she remarked.
“I didn’t buy it,” he replied tightly. “It was Winston’s and will soon be going up for auction, along with the horses and the rest of his belongings.”
“Oh.” Henrietta’s gray eyes flickered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give offense.”
“None taken.” Julian shrugged it off. “I am not quite the wastrel that everyone seems to think.”
“Yet you do nothing to dispel the false preconception,” she said. “Why is that?”
“Why should I trouble myself?” Julian remarked. “They are predisposed to believe what they wish to believe, regardless of what I say or do to the contrary. Winston and I have fed the gossip mills for too many years. Why should I now deprive the people of Shropshire of one of their chief pleasures?”
“You needn’t be so cynical, Jules,” Henrietta chided. “Not everyone in Shropshire thrives on gossip. Speaking of which, what actually happened to your uncle? I’ve heard rumors, of course, but rumor rarely bears much resemblance to truth.”
Julian arched a brow. “And what, pray tell, do the rumormongers say of Winston’s demise?”
“Some claim ’twas a duel over a game of cards,” she replied. “One said he fell from his horse during a drunken race, and still another said he was murdered by a jealous husband.”
“It was nothing so fantastical, I assure you.” Julian laughed. “Winston succumbed to a case of influenza.”
“Influenza?” Henrietta said incredulously.
“Yes. I’m quite certain he would have preferred a much more notorious death, but there you have it. The Maker rarely gives us our preference in these matters.”
“When did you learn of his death?” Henrietta asked.
“I received word of it about a year ago.”
“Why did you not come home then?”
He hesitated, recalling his reaction to the news. He’d been riddled with guilt that he’d felt nothing, absolutely nothing at the loss of the man who had raised him, albeit with almost total disregard. No, he couldn’t mourn Winston, but he did mourn Thomas, his friend, who’d acted as his closest confidant and conscience. Losing him had created a void that he was at a loss to fill.
“Because I knew it would make no difference,” Julian replied. “Besides that, victory was in sight. For once in my life, I wanted to see something through. I owed as much to my fallen comrades. Had we lost, their lives would have been taken in vain.”
“I don’t understand you, Julian. You proved your loyalty and dedication to our country’s cause at your own expense. Why do you not show the same concern for your family?”
Julian stared ahead. “What family? My parents and sister are gone, and Winston died without a wife or heirs. I am all there is left. Do you know I never shed a single tear for Winston?”
“Why should you have?” she exclaimed. “That wastrel never did a thing for you except to squander your inheritance! Which leads back to my point. You survived the war. We lost far too many good men. It is your duty to continue your family line. You need to live again, Jules, not just survive from one day to the next.”
“How, Hen? When I barely have the means to feed myself,” he snapped, immediately regretting both his words and lapse of temper.
“What? You told us you weren’t ruined,” Henrietta accused.
“I lied,” Julian confessed. “Fool that I am, I trusted Winston, and he destroyed me. The money is all gone, Hen. There is nothing left but debt that I have no means of repaying.”
“What will you do?”
“I have no choice but to sell it all. I came back to Price Hall merely to appraise the condition of the house and the tenant farms . . . and to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” Her throat tightened. “Does that mean you are going away again?”
“After considering all of my options, it appears my only choice is to return to Portugal.”
“P-Portugal?” she repeated incredulously. “I don’t understand! The war is over. Why would you wish to go back there?”
“The decision has nothing to do with what I wish, Hen. I wish I could snap my fingers and have a fortune appear, but it doesn’t work that way. I have no money, and I have no prospects. Fortunately, the Portuguese aren’t all that particular given the number of men they’ve lost.”
“But if you intended to remain in the army, why did you sell your commission?”
“I needed funds, and it was the only thing I had of value to sell,” he replied.