Page 62 of The Duke's Return
And then he could see them.
Julian could see it all, the way he could walk through the maze on the edge of his gardens where the summertime made the pond shine brighter. He could see his wife up ahead laughing with a wriggling bundle in her arms. And the maze, short as itwas, allowed him to see the top of two mousy heads running about and laughing as well.
“Come join us!” they called.
When he blinked, it went away. Julian remembered making a jest and changing the topic. It hadn’t been long before Tristan took his leave.
The image of a life that didn’t exist––that wasn’t meant to exist––had been immediately pushed as far away as Julian could manage. But it had resurfaced a time or two without his permission.
Now as he looked out to the dawn of a new day, he could still hear the laughter ringing through the air. These were voices that didn’t exist. Memories that would never be real. So why did his heart know them?
Needing an escape, Julian dressed himself and took off toward the stables. His horse eagerly welcomed him. Soon they were flying across the land and exploring the trails at a risky pace, but neither of them cared to stop.
It was still a while before he slowed down. Both of them were damp with sweat and breathing hard when he slid off the horse, pausing at the river that ran alongside the village. He had crossed the land further than expected, even leaving his own property to wind up on the other side of town.
“Good morning,” he called a short while later when he passed one of his tenants on the outskirts of the farm. “How are you this fine morning?”
“A sight better’n you, it looks to be,” said the man as he came to the fence. It was Mr. Fentworth, one of the quieterfellows of the lot who had been protesting the agreements. Quieter but smarter. He’d pushed along a lot of the lads, which Julian had noticed by the second meeting. Twice Julian’s age, Mr. Fentworth was shorter but broader with a weathered face and thick eyebrows. He furrowed those as he looked at Julian. “Weather’s too nice for haunts these days. What could a duke have to worry about?”
Julian let out a short laugh. “You can read me well, Mr. Fentworth.”
“Ah, we’ve argued enough to be friends, haven’t we? Please, Your Grace, call me Allen.”
“Only if you call me Southwick.”
The man hesitated and then nodded. “Very well. Southwick. Now, you know what’s a certain fix for a heavy brow?”
Julian tilted his chin up. “Don’t tell me it’s a shot of brandy.”
“And waste what I have on you?” The man smirked. “Hardly. No, I was going to say a heavier load. Like hay bales.”
“Hay bales?”
“And sheep that need to be moved.”
Looking beyond the farmer, Julian glanced into the fields where hay bales were scattered and a few sheep were penned up in a corner. Amusement spread through him. “Are you trying to get some unpaid help this morning?”
“Helping you,” the man countered. “Besides, your hands are too soft.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Fentworth. But you have a deal. Some physical exertion may be just what I need and I have a feeling you wouldn’t participate in a bout with me.”
“About what?”
Julian’s lips twitched. “Exactly. We’ll save the boxing for another day. If you have a place for my horse, then I’ll join you in this morning’s duties.”
It wasn’t the first time he had done something like this. There had been a few instances with his uncle growing up where the man had recommended Julian to learn more about his tenants. Taking it to understand their work, he spent half a summer drinking and the other half working with the animals.
“Ah, so you’re not a total fool,” Allen jested when Julian grappled with the hay. “Very good. Right over there, then, that’s where we’re putting them for loading tomorrow.”
“Are you sure it will keep dry?”
“Aye, it’ll keep. It’s hearty hay we have.”
That was the most pleasant work he did that morning, with the scratchy hay in his hands. He moved on to various other duties alongside the farmer. Allen was supposed to have his nephew helping him this summer, but the young man had broken his arm and couldn’t do much.
On they worked as the sun continued to rise. The manual labor grew more difficult by the hour, and terribly unpleasant. But he didn’t stop. Soon he had lost half his clothing, was covered in filth and sweat, and could finally think clearly.
There’s no room for thought when my muscles ache. I had forgotten how good this can feel. If only I had someone at theestate to box with regularly. Or I suppose I can do the work for my tenants when I need to stop thinking.
