Page 1 of The Reckless Love of an Heir
1
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, the bloody thing made it impossible to dress or shave himself and he was equally unable to ride a horse, or drive his curricle.
He’d been told by the surgeon in London he must wear the sling for a month while his shoulder healed, and so he had chosen to come home; at least there 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 winding avenue. The tall horse-chestnut trees on either side were covered in pillars of white spring blossom.
Henry looked into 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 heart that inspired pride and affection. Yet, he was equally happy when he was away from it. Since he resided in London, life had opened doors and windows he’d not seen through before. He did not regret moving there at all. Once he’d finished at Oxford, it would have been hideous here. 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 reverted to their coddled child. In London he could do as he wished, without judgement.
There.
He saw the house.
Farnborough House was caught in a ray of sunlight that broke through the grey clouds which dulled 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 tug became an overwhelming sense of coming home when the carriage passed through the archway beneath the ancient portcullis of the original castle. This was the oldest part of the house. In the courtyard, the sounds of the horses’ hooves and the iron-rimmed carriage wheels rang on the cobble with metallic echoes bouncing from the walls of the house, spurringmore emotions. The sounds were not the same in the Georgian terraces of London.
Before the carriage even drew to a halt, the aged oak front door opened and his sisters spilled out, surrounded by his father’s giant grey deerhounds and followed by his mother – there was another pull in his chest. Love. He loved his family, no matter that he had left them behind. It had been easier to leave them because he always knew when he needed them, they were here.
The dogs’ tails waved in the air like flags of welcome, 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 on the journey.
The noise of the fountain running in the centre of the courtyard became the overwhelming sound of home.
Samson, his favourite among his father’s dogs, slipped his head beneath Henry’s good hand, urging Henry to pet him. He stroked behind Samson’s ear in an idle gesture, recalling the years spent with his father’s dogs.
His mother came forward, her arms lifting to embrace him.
‘Mama,’ he acknowledged as she gently wrapped her arms about him.
He gritted his teeth, trying not to wince, as she held him too tightly. He pulled away. ‘My shoulder.’ The pain was sharp and twisted nausea through his stomach as well as shooting pain down his arm and across his back.
‘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 outnumbered 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 far,’ Henry said.
‘Were you winning the race?’
His good arm settled about Christine’s shoulders, in brotherly comradery, as they walked towards the house, the dogs with them. ‘Of course. Do you not remember? I always win.’
Sarah, who was eighteen, and due to have her come out in London in a few weeks, was walking ahead of him. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. ‘I sent a groom over to the Forths’s to tell Alethea you are home. She wished to know as soon as you arrived so she might call and see you at once.’
Henry smiled. God bless Alethea… He would be required to feel guilty within the hour then. They were not officially engaged, yet that outcome was an unspoken agreement cooked up almost from their births. A plan formed between his father and hers. Uncle Casper, Lord Forth, owned a neighbouring estate.
After Henry’s birth Lord and Lady Forth had been blessed with a daughter, and – probably even while wetting Alethea’s head – it became their parents’ perfect plan to match the two.
