The Reckless Love of an Heir: An epic historical romance perfect for fans of period drama Victoria. Jane Lark
Twenty
The carriage passed between the large stone lions that held the shields engraved with the Barrington coat of arms and entered the Farnborough Estate through the open wrought iron gates. Henry sighed heavily and removed his foot from the opposite seat of his father’s carriage. The carriage had been sent to town to collect him, on his request.
Pain shot from his right shoulder down to the elbow that was held bent within a sling. His left hand lifted and braced the shoulder.
The damn thing killed. He would be glad to get out of this carriage. Each rut in the road had jolted his arm.
He’d dislocated the shoulder in a fall from his curricle and sprained his wrist besides acquiring several bruises and the bloody thing made it impossible to dress or shave himself and he was equally unable ride a horse, or drive his curricle.
He’d been told by the surgeon in London that he must wear the sling for a month while his shoulder healed, and so he had chosen to come home; where at least he would have his father’s valet and his mother and sisters to look after him.
He picked up his hat from the far seat, using his good hand, and put it on as the carriage passed the gate house then began its journey along the snaking avenue, with its tall horse-chestnut trees either side. The trees were covered in pillars of white spring blossom.
Henry looked towards the distance, between the trees, trying to catch the first glimpse of the house.
Home. He felt a pull from it, a tug at the far end of what had once been a leading rein. The land and property that would one day be his had a place in his chest that inspired pride and affection. Yet, he was equally happy to be away from it. Since he’d resided in London life had opened doors and windows he’d not seen through before. He did not regret moving there at all. It would have been hideous here, once he’d finished at Oxford. The restrictions his father and mother would have set over his life if he’d returned to Farnborough would have been unbearable, he would have become their coddled child again. In London he could do as he wished, without judgement.
There.
He saw the house.
Farnborough was caught in a ray of sunlight that had broken through the clouds, the clouds that had been hovering over the carriage throughout his journey.
The modernised medieval property had a particular charm, and it did tug at his heart, regardless of his lack of regret over leaving it, and the childhood he’d known here, behind.
That small tug became an overwhelming sense of coming home when the carriage passed beneath the archway of the oldest part of the house underneath the ancient portcullis of the original castle. The emotion was spurred by the sound of the horses’ hooves and iron rimmed carriage wheels ringing on the cobble and sending metallic echoes bouncing back from the walls of the house around the courtyard.
His sisters came out, surrounded by his father’s giant grey deerhounds before the carriage had even drawn to a halt, followed by his mother—there was another pull in his chest. Love. He loved his family, no matter that he had left them behind here. It had been easier to leave them because he’d always known when he needed them, they were here.
The dogs’ tails waved in the air like flags of welcome on the castle’s walls, as they surrounded the carriage.
A footman moved before the women to open the carriage door. Henry climbed down, gripping the carriage frame with his left hand, trying not to move his right arm, because the thing still hurt like the devil from all the damned jolts it had endured to get here.
The noise of the fountain running at the centre of the courtyard echoed back from the old stone about him; another sound which spoke of home.
Samson, his favourite among his father’s dogs, slipped his head beneath Henry’s good hand urging Henry for a petting. He stroked behind Samson’s ear in an idle gesture, that recalled years and hours spent with his father’s dogs.
His mother came forward, her arms lifting to embrace him, as her face expressed her concern over the sling holding his arm.
“Mama,” He acknowledged as she wrapped her arms about him.
She held him too tightly, though. He pulled away. “My shoulder.” The jar of pain was sharp and twisted nausea through his stomach as well as shooting pain down his arm and across his back. He gritted his teeth, trying not to wince from it.
“Oh, I am sorry. Are you so badly hurt? You have had your father and I worried beyond measure.”
“How far did you fall?” Christine his youngest sister asked. She was not the youngest of his siblings, though. He had two sisters but his brothers out numbered them two to one. Fortunately the younger ones were away at School and not here to disturb him. The eldest, Percy, the next to Henry in age was twenty and at University in Oxford. Christine was seventeen.
“Too