“That one’s Tippo,” Hannah said, introducing Charles to the pug. “And this is Evangeline.” She urged the spaniel to hop forward for her brother to pet. “She’s shy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Tippo,” Charles said. “And you, Evangeline.” He stroked the two new dogs gently on their heads, careful not to be too familiar just yet. Many of the dogs at Heywood House had started their lives in less-than-ideal circumstances. It often took time for them to trust new people.
“What do you call him?” Hannah asked, admiring her new puppy.
Charles stood, brushing the dog hair from his trousers as his parents descended the steps to join them. “I haven’t named him yet. I’ll leave that to you.” He leaned down to drop a kiss on his sister’s head. “I’ve missed you, little one.”
Hannah hadn’t only grown in height since he’d seen her last. She’d matured in countless other ways. Her letters had attested as much. She’d written frequently, telling him about her studies, her support for a newly formed organization devoted to the prevention of cruelty to animals, and how her love of animals had prompted her to adopt a vegetarian diet.
“You shouldn’t have gone back to sea after your last visit,” she said. “Not with a war brewing. Though Papa says I must try to understand. Something about your having to prove yourself.”
Charles smiled. He’d long ceased being surprised by his father’s perception. “Something like that.”
“You’ve brought us another dog?” Arthur said. “Good God.” His gruff tone was belied by the warmth in his eyes as he beheld his son. He pulled him into a hard embrace—brief but heartfelt—just as he’d often done when Charles was small. “Is this how you make amends?”
A lump formed in Charles’s throat. “It’s a start.”
“A poor one, given what’s past.”
“I’m aware.”
Arthur’s gaze held a hint of steel. “You and I are due for a long talk, lad.”
“I’m aware of that as well,” Charles said.
His mother came to him next. She hugged him fiercely. “My darling, how I’ve longed to see your face!”
Charles enfolded her in his arms, holding her tight. There was a different kind of strength in his mother’s embrace. One born of grace and tenderness.
She was the gentlest lady he’d ever known. Wherever he’d gone in life, however far he’d roamed, her kindness and compassion had been his lodestar.
“Do we have you a month this time?” she asked. “Or dare I hope you’ve been given longer?”
“A bit longer.” Charles wasn’t yet ready to tell them the truth. Not here on the front steps, only seconds after his arrival.
“Thank heaven,” she said. “And you won’t cut it short like last time?”
He inwardly winced at his mother’s delicate reprimand. After arguing with his father during his last visit, Charles had departed Somersetshire with two weeks of his leave still remaining. His mother and sister had wept when he’d left.
“I’m sorry about what happened then,” he said, his words for her ears alone. “I never meant to cause you pain.”
“Hush, love. You’re here now. That’s all that matters. There’s time enough for the rest of it.” She drew back to look at him. Her mismatched eyes glistened with tears of pure happiness. “Oh, what joy we shall have this Christmas now you’re home!”
“Grandfather isn’t joining us this year,” Hannah said. “Nor Mrs. Ogilvy.”
Mrs. Ogilvy was the longtime mistress of Charles’s grandfather, the Earl of Gordon. Grandfather refused to travel without her companionship. When Charles was a boy, they’d visited Heywood House together often. To the outward world, Mrs. Ogilvy’s inclusion in the family was a minor scandal, but Charles had been raised to look on the lady almost as a grandmother.
“Why not?” he asked.
“They’re staying with Uncle George in Northumberland. We might have gone, but Aunt Prudence doesn’t like me to bring all the dogs.”
George Heywood, Viscount Carlisle was the earl’s heir. A former rake, known for his disastrous affairs with women, he’d long since settled down into respectable marriage and fatherhood.
“A pity,” Charles said. “I would have liked to see them.”
“You will soon, darling, I promise,” Philly said. “When next you have leave, we’ll arrange it so all of the family can be together.”
All.
Their extended family wasn’t very many in number. Though Charles’s father had relations still living, his mother had none. Philly had been raised by her beloved grandfather, Sir Charles, at Satterthwaite Court in Devonshire. Both he and the estate had been lost well before Charles was born. But his great-grandfather hadn’t been forgotten. Charles was his namesake.
“In the meanwhile”—Arthur slapped his son on the back—“come inside. You’ll be wanting your tea.”
“Sara has laid out a feast for you,” Philly said.
“Iced gingerbread, almond cakes, and all of your special favorites,” Hannah informed him. “She means to spoil you rotten.”
Their housekeeper, Sara, and her husband, the Heywoods’ butler, William, had been seeing to the smooth running of the household since Charles was in leading strings. They were practically family.
“What tragedy has befallen Evangeline’s leg?” Charles asked as the three-legged spaniel hopped past him up the steps.
“She lost it in a shooting accident at the abbey,” Hannah explained. “Their gamekeeper was going to have her destroyed.”
The neighboring estate belonged to an unpleasant couple, known for hosting raucous house parties that attracted the worst of London society.
“Fortunately,” Philly said, “your sister and I persuaded him to abandon the idea and give her to us instead.”
“Papa persuaded him.” Hannah cast a meaningful glance at her brother.
Charles suppressed a grin. He well knew his father’s powers of persuasion. There was little Arthur Heywood wouldn’t do to ensure the happiness of his daughter—and nothing he wouldn’t do for his wife.
“It was all to the good.” Philly linked her arm through Arthur’s as they ascended the steps. “Evangeline has been exceedingly happy with us.”
“This dashing fellow will be happy as well.” Hannah settled the little stray more firmly in her arms. “I shall call him Odysseus.” She flashed her brother another look. “He was a wanderer too. A sailor, like you, Charles, who eventually found his way home.”
“What the devil are you doing in here?”
Kate’s fingers stilled on her crochet hook as her brother, Jack Beresford, third son of the Earl of Allendale, strode into the morning room at Beasley Park.
He was dressed for a ride—a sturdy broadcloth coat molded to his shoulders and cord breeches hugging his long legs. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, gleaming in the golden threads of his hair. At one and twenty, he was the spitting image of their father.
“By God, are you knitting?” He looked at his sister in horrified amazement.