The Firstborn

Chapter Twenty-Four

Haughton peered out the window of his coach. They had already made the turn through the gates, the wide, even lane that led up to the main house curving smoothly into the trees and out of sight.

The first leg of his journey from London to Derbyshire had been a trial, the rain becoming a ceaseless impediment, rendering the roads - if such a word could be used for paths so rutted and pockmarked that local wheelwrights would be left with enough business to carry them through to the end of the month - nearly impassable until the worst of the deluge had passed. At one point, several miles outside of Luton, Haughton had considered ordering the driver to turn them around and begin the journey back towards London, but he demolished that thought before he could give it a voice.

He'd already written to Bess and informed her of his impending arrival. Should he fail to show himself at the end of the designated frame of time allotted for his journey, no doubt his sister would send out a search party in order to ensure he hadn't tumbled headlong into ditch somewhere along the way.

Bess had written to him to inform him of Sophia and George's arrival at Denton Castle, and then proceeded to write every other day for the following three weeks. From Sophia herself, he'd received not a word. In fact, the last he'd seen her had been when he'd helped her into a carriage in front of his townhouse in St. James's street. A word to the footman, and the step was put up, the door closed, and she began her journey back to Stantreath.

The farewell had been remarkably short, a perfunctory demonstration of all things they'd both been trained to say in such a situation. A wish for a safe and pleasant journey. A few words of gratitude from her for all of his help. A slight squeeze of her gloved hand and a brief tousle of George's hair, and nothing more.

He'd done nothing to delay her. Her intentions to leave London as soon as possible could not have been clearer. That she'd hoped to receive some word from her sister, he did not doubt. But though several notes were sent out, all of them penned in Sophia's own hand, to Lucy's place of lodging, no reply had been forthcoming. Her sister, it seemed, having achieved her promise of five thousand pounds, seemed to no longer crave further communication with the rest of her family.

Haughton glanced out the window again, the brilliance of the afternoon sun dappling the graveled lane with rays of light that shone down through the branches of the trees. At the edge of his view, a large stream wound its way through the woods, its swollen surface catching the light as it snaked towards a stone arch bridge over which the carriage rumbled only a few moments later.

The house would be the next thing to come into view. Rolling lawns and stately elms forming a frame to his childhood home. But Haughton allowed the shade to fall back into place. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes closed as he pressed his head against the quilted upholstery behind him. He would arrive at the door, and a flutter of activity would commence. And there would be Bess in the midst of it all, ready to greet him, to chastise him for not arriving sooner. As if he had not had more than enough business with which to occupy his time before he could deem it prudent to depart from London.

The carriage rolled to a halt. The usual shouts commenced, along with a tilting of the vehicle as driver and footmen climbed down and changed positions and immediately began to remove his luggage. The door opened, the steps were lowered, and Haughton stepped out into near blinding sunlight. He raised his hand to the brim of his hat as he squinted against the glow, made even brighter by the jewels of moisture that still stubbornly clung to every stone and blade of grass.

He glanced towards the front doors of the house, fully expecting his sister to rush out to meet him. But there was no sign that Bess had even been alerted of his arrival. And so he went indoors, passing his hat and coat to the butler while he inwardly bristled at such a silent welcome. Without realizing it, he'd become accustomed to the flurry of conversation and tea things being foisted on him within minutes of his arrival in Derbyshire.