Hugo went straight to London after leaving Penderris. He longed to go home to Crosslands, to be quiet there for a while, to see the new lambs and calves, to talk over the spring planting with his steward, to plan his flower garden better than he had done last year, to … well, to lick his wounds.
He felt wounded.
But if he went to Crosslands first, he might make excuses to stay there indefinitely, and he might indeed become the recluse some of his friends in the Survivors’ Club accused him of being. Not that there was anything wrong with being a recluse if one enjoyed living with oneself for company, as Hugo did, even if his friends insisted that it was not his natural state and he was in danger of exploding somehow one day, like a firecracker waiting for a spark to ignite it.
But there was something wrong with being a recluse or even a happy farmer and gardener when one had responsibilities elsewhere. His father had been dead for longer than a year now, and in all that time Hugo had done no more than glance over the meticulously detailed reports William Richardson sent him each month. His father had chosen his manager with care and had trusted him utterly. But, he had told Hugo during those last hours of his life, Richardson was only a manager, not a visionary. Hugo’s eyes had several times paused upon some detail in the reports, and he had felt an itch to make some change, to force some new direction, to get involved. But it was an itch he had stubbornly refused to scratch. He did not want to be involved.
It was an attitude he could not continue to hold.
And Constance was getting older by the day. Nineteen was still very young, of course, even if she sometimes hinted in her letters that it was ancient. But he knew that many girls considered they were on the shelf if they were not married before they were twenty. Even regardless of that, though, all girls of eighteen or nineteen ought to be out enjoying themselves with other young people of their own age. They should be looking about them for prospective partners, testing the waters, making choices.
Fiona was too sickly to take Constance anywhere herself, and she was also too sickly to allow anyone else to take Constance away from her. How would she manage without her daughter by her side every second of her waking day?
There was no one more selfish than his stepmother. Only he could stand up to her. And it was something he must do again, for he was Constance’s guardian.
He resisted the temptation to go to Crosslands, then, and went straight to London instead. The time had come.
He steeled his nerve.
Constance was more than delighted to see him. She squealed loudly and came dashing across her mother’s sitting room when he was announced, and launched herself into his arms.
“Hugo!” she cried. “Oh, Hugo. You have come. At last. And without giving us any warning, you wretch. Will you be staying? Oh, do say you will. Hugo. Oh, Hugo.”
He hugged her tightly to him and let love and guilt wash over him in equal measure. She was youthful and slender and blond and pretty with eager green eyes. She looked remarkably like her mother and made him understand why his sober, steady father had done something as uncharacteristic as marry a milliner’s assistant eighteen years his junior after an acquaintance of a mere two weeks.
“I will stay,” he said. “I promised I would come this spring, did I not? You are looking remarkably fine, Connie.”
He held her at arm’s length and looked down at her. There was a sparkle to her eyes and color in her cheeks even though it looked as though she needed to get more sunshine on her skin. He would see that that was put to rights.
His stepmother seemed equally pleased to see him. Not that he often thought of Fiona as his stepmother. She was only five years older than he. He had been a big lad when she had married his father, far bigger than she. She had fawned over him, showered affection upon him, shown pride in him and praised him to his father—and ultimately driven him away. He would not have insisted that his father purchase his commission if it had not been for Fiona. He had not grown up wanting to be a soldier, after all. Strange thought that. How different his life might have been.
It was a thought to add to all the other what-ifs of his existence.
She held out a hand to him now, a handkerchief clutched in it. She was still lovely in a languid, faded sort of way. She was as slender as Constance. There was no gray in her hair and there were no lines on her face. There was an unhealthy pallor to her complexion, though, which might have been caused by real ill-health or by imagined ailments that kept her constantly at home and inactive. She had always had those ailments. She had used them to keep his father attentive, though she had probably not needed to use any wiles to accomplish that goal. His father had adored her to the end, even if his understanding of her character had saddened him.
“Hugo!” she said as he bowed over her hand and carried it to his lips. “You have come home. Your father would have been pleased. He intended that you look after me. And Constance too.”
“Fiona.” He released her hand and took a step back. “I trust your needs have been fully met during the past year even in my absence. If they have not been, someone will be answering to me.”
“Such a masterful man.” She smiled wanly. “I always liked that about you. I have lacked for company, Hugo. We have lacked for company, have we not, Constance?”
“But you are here now,” Constance said happily, linking her arm through his. “And you are staying. Oh, will you take me to see our cousins? Or invite them here? And will you take me—”
“Constance,” her mother said plaintively.
Hugo took a seat and set a hand over his sister’s soft little one after drawing her down beside him.
He stayed for almost two weeks. He did not invite any of his relatives to his house. Fiona’s health would not allow it. He did visit his aunts and uncles and cousins, however, taking Constance with him despite her mother’s protests at being left alone. And he realized something very quickly. Most of his relatives were sociable beings and well connected in their middle-class world. They were all delighted to see him and equally happy to see Constance. Some of the younger cousins were in her age group. Any or all of them would be perfectly willing to take Constance about with them. She would make friends in no time. She would probably have a large circle of admirers within days or weeks. She could be married before summer was out.
All she really needed was for someone—him—to put his foot down with her mother so that she was no longer incarcerated at home like an unpaid companion. He would not be compelled to marry. Not for Constance’s sake, anyway. And he was not eager to rush into marriage for the other reason. He was going to be in London for a while. He could satisfy his needs in other ways than marrying.
It was a bit of a depressing thought, actually, but then so was marriage.
Fulfilling his obligation to his half sister was not to be that easy after all, though. For she had definite ideas of her own about what would make her happy, and they went beyond moving in the world of her cousins, much as she loved them and enjoyed calling upon them.
“You are a lord, Hugo,” she said when they were strolling in Hyde Park one morning before Fiona was even up from her bed. “And you are a hero. It must be possible for you to move in higher circles than Papa ever could. Once people learn that you are in town, they will surely send you invitations. How absolutely marvelous it would be to attend a ton ball at one of the grand mansions in Mayfair. To dance there. Can you imagine it?”