* * * * *
Ritcherd leaned his head back against the plush interior of the carriage and thanked God for bringing him home at last. He had no idea how long he’d been hospitalized in the colonies, and the weeks on the ship returning to England had dragged incessantly. When they’d finally arrived in Portsmouth, he was hospitalized immediately because he was still having problems with his arm. The previous morning it had been decided that the arm was past the threat of infection, and that it would get no better and no worse. At last he was going home.
It was late when the carriage halted in front of Buckley Manor. Ritcherd stepped down, then he stood in the drive until it rolled away, looking up at the ominous structure before him, wondering why it filled him with dread. A maid he didn’t recognize scurried into the hall when the door closed loudly. He eased her fearful look when he said, “Please tell Mrs. Buchanan that her son is home.”
She curtsied and bustled up the stairs while Ritcherd set his bag down and absorbed these familiar surroundings that made him feel like a stranger. He pushed open the drawing room door and was not surprised to see that the room had been redecorated. He was just about to pour himself a drink when he heard someone enter the room and he turned to see his mother, who had obviously been about to go to bed. Her hair was down, and she wore an elaborate dressing gown that suited her well.
“Ritcherd,” she smiled breathlessly, “I don’t believe it.”
Stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek, she laughed slightly. Ritcherd returned the kiss and felt himself smile for the first time in months. He actually felt glad to see her.
“Oh,” she said, touching his face, “you don’t look so well. Sit down. I’m certain the journey was terrible for you.”
“It was long,” he stated, pouring a drink and sitting across the room from her.
“I was informed that you were in Portsmouth. And I got word just yesterday that you would be returning soon, but I had no idea when, or I would have been better prepared. You should have written.”
“I couldn’t,” he said with no inflection in his voice, and Jeanette took obvious notice of his right arm in a sling.
“They told me you’d been wounded. Is it terribly serious?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“It could have been worse,” he said.
“I’ve been dreadfully worried.”
“Portsmouth isn’t so very far. You could have inquired . . . or come yourself.”
“I thought about it,” she said apologetically, “but I’ve been so dreadfully busy and—”
“Yes, I see you’ve been redecorating again,” he interrupted with a nonchalant glance about the room.
“Do you like it?” she asked with a lilt in her voice.
“It’s not so bad.”
“Well,” she turned her attention back to him, “what will you do now that you’re back? You look like you could use some rest.”
“I’m sick to death of resting,” he said and took a sip of brandy.
“I’m certain the Cornwall air will put some color back into you. You always thrived on it.”
“I have to agree there.”
“As soon as I heard you were in England, I set right to work planning a celebration.” Ritcherd sighed. It was just like his mother to find any excuse for a social. “When I heard you were coming soon, I had the invitations sent right out. Everyone will be so pleased to see you again.”
Ritcherd made a noise to indicate he’d heard. He couldn’t think of anybody she might have invited that he had any desire to see.
“Beyond that,” she went on, “do you have any plans?”
“The first thing I’m going to do is see Kyrah,” he said with his first note of enthusiasm, but Jeanette’s expression immediately lost all animation.
“Ritcherd! You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look serious?” he asked tensely, realizing it had been foolish to hope she might have changed her opinions of Kyrah.
“Surely you can’t intend to maintain a relationship with her after all that’s happened.”
Ritcherd felt an uneasy prickle at the back of his neck. He knew his ignorance was evident when his mother added with an incredulous gasp, “Surely you’ve heard."
“Heard what?” His eyes narrowed.
“What’s happened, of course. Obviously you haven’t. I wondered if I should write and tell you myself, but I didn’t figure it was any of my business. I’m surprised she didn’t write and let you know. But then, I daresay she’d have been too humiliated to tell you herself. She should be. Although I expected something like this would happen. People like that never last long when they try to exist where they don’t belong, and who’s to say that—”
“Mother!” he interrupted impatiently, a nervous dread smoldering inside of him. “Get to the point.”
“Why, they lost the estate, darling,” she stated smugly, and Ritcherd felt a lump catch in his throat. When the shock left him unable to reply, Jeanette went on quickly, seeming to thrive on the conversation. “From what I hear, it happened just like that!” She snapped her fingers. “Of course, the man who has moved into the house is very nice. He’s about your age, I believe. And I’ve—”
“Where are they?” he pressed, leaning forward.
“Most likely where they always should have been,” she answered quickly.
“And where is that?” he asked, his impatience turning to anger.
“The cottage, of course . . . where Mrs. Payne lived years ago, with that . . . school teacher.”
Ritcherd sighed and looked toward the window. The formless concerns he’d felt throughout his time away came all too prominently to the surface. He wanted to know what had happened, but knew there was no need to ask. He only had to look pointedly at his mother for her to continue.
“You must know, Ritcherd, that things have changed a great deal in your absence.” She seemed certain she could convince him that Kyrah was not the girl for him—and never had been. “She’s working for Mr. Westman now and—”
“Doing what?” he shouted, moving to the edge of his chair.
“How should I know?”
“What do you know?”
“Miss Payne is working to keep herself and her mother fed, from what I hear. Thanks to Mr. Westman, they weren’t thrown right out on the street.”
Ritcherd felt sick inside already, but as certain aspects of Kyrah’s letters came to mind, he had to ask, “Where is Stephen?” She looked at him bewildered, and he wondered what horrible thing had happened. Was he in prison? Had he become ill? His impatience rising, he clarified, “Stephen Payne. Kyrah’s father.”
“I thought you would have heard,” Jeanette said in a tone that made Ritcherd’s heart pound. “It’s been years. It was quite a shock, though I daresay it shouldn’t have been. After all, what would you expect from a gambler? It was his own fault that he lost everything he had in a game of cards. But that’s the way people like that live, never knowing one day to the next if they’ll have anything at all. If he’d been any kind of a man, he wouldn’t have been a gambler in the first place. But it just proves my theory when you see how he took the cowardly way out and—”
“Mother!” Ritcherd shouted. “Where is he?”
Jeanette wore no expression at all. As if discussing the weather, she stated simply, “He’s dead. He shot himself.”
Ritcherd stood abruptly, and everything inside of him went cold. He threw his glass of brandy against the wall in a physical reaction to what his mind was still unable to comprehend.
“Naturally I assumed you knew,” Jeanette stammered somewhere on the brink of his coherency, but he made no reply. His chest tightened and his palms began to sweat. A quick glance toward his mother showed only a dumb expression that he interpreted as disgust. Unable to bear her attitude any longer, he lumbered from the room and up the stairs, needing only to be alone. By the time he had his bedroom door closed behind him, the tightness in his chest ha
d become painful and he struggled to fill his lungs with air. He went to his knees, suddenly weak as his mother’s words catapulted through his mind over and over. He’s dead. He shot himself.
“No!” Ritcherd groaned, losing his equilibrium as the blood rushed from his head. “Dear God, no!” he muttered, nearly pressing his head to the floor. “Please, no!”
What went wrong? he asked himself until his head throbbed. What could have happened to cause such madness? And as always, at the center of his thoughts was Kyrah. How had she coped with this? He groaned again to recall his mother’s account. Working to keep herself and her mother fed. He couldn’t believe it! Why hadn’t Kyrah written and told him? He could have helped her. If he’d only known, he could have had his solicitor see that their needs were met.
He felt certain his mother’s rendition of the story, in addition to being sordid, was most likely the product of gossip, and he had to wonder what really happened. There was so much that didn’t make sense. It was all so horrible—so completely and utterly horrible.
Through a grief-stricken, sleepless night, the only comfort Ritcherd could find was his certainty that with morning, Kyrah would be in his arms. He knew that together they could overcome the pain of anything—even this.
The sun had barely appeared when Ritcherd hurried out to the stable, pleased to see his own stallion there and well cared for. He was grateful to be alone when saddling the horse with one hand made his struggle to get dressed seem easy. Mounting was not a problem, but he found it took him several minutes to be able to maneuver the reins with his left hand. Finally getting a feel for it, he rode quickly toward the cottage, inwardly cursing the damage this war had done to his life—and Kyrah’s. His heart was racing when he knocked at the door, and Sarah’s voice was the best sound he’d heard in years as she called for him to enter.
He stepped into the tiny, dimly lit entryway and closed the door behind him. He felt briefly uncertain until Sarah’s voice came again. “I’m here in the parlor.” He made no reply and she added, “Who’s there?”
Quietly he stepped into the room, saying with an irrepressible smile, “Hello, Sarah.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief from where she sat on the sofa with her feet up. Leaning forward expectantly, she whispered with a tremor in her voice, “Ritcherd? Oh! I can’t believe it.”
When his eyes adjusted to the light, the first testament of reality struck him. Sarah Payne was a shadow of the woman he’d left three years ago. She’d always been so vibrant, so youthful and full of life. But she had aged more than a decade in three years. Her eyes were sallow, and there was a weak, pained look about her.
“Oh, Ritcherd,” she said, reaching her arms out for him and he moved quickly to her side, pulling her close to him with his good arm. She embraced him firmly, then pulled away to look into his eyes. “You’re here.” She touched his face gently and he saw tears glisten in her eyes. “We were so worried for you. I’m so grateful to see you here. Are you well?”
“Yes,” he smiled, “I’m fine.”
“You’re hurt.” Her eyes brimmed with compassion as they moved to his right arm, still cradled in a sling.
“I’m alive,” he chuckled and she smiled at him. “Where is Kyrah?” he asked expectantly.
“She’s already left.”
“This early?” he questioned in surprise.
“She’ll be back around noon,” she said. “If you come back then, you can see her.”
The disappointment was consuming. Noon seemed so far away. But he smiled again at Sarah. “I’ll do that.”
Their eyes met, and he wanted to ask how she was doing. But it was so apparent that he knew it would be a stupid question.
“I didn’t know,” he said feebly, “what happened . . . until . . . just last night, and I . . .”
He stopped when he saw the grief come into her eyes. And she was obviously surprised that he hadn’t known. He wanted to ask her what had happened. And even more, he wanted to be able to say something that could somehow make things better for her. It would have been natural to talk about the time they’d been separated, but there was nothing that had happened to either of them that could be discussed without adding to the sorrowful mood of their reunion.
Ritcherd chuckled tensely. “Three years, and I can’t think of a blasted thing to say.”
Sarah smiled but said nothing.
“I’ll come back,” he said, standing, “around noon. If she gets here before I do, don’t tell her. I’d like . . .”
“Of course,” she said easily when he faltered, “you’ll want to surprise her.”
Ritcherd nodded and bent naturally to kiss Sarah on the cheek. He left the cottage reluctantly, already counting down the minutes until noon.