Page 15 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

“Yes,” Charles replied. “I know.”

There was a lengthy silence between them.

It was taut with all the things left unsaid since Charles’s last visit home. The lingering disappointment at the choices he’d made and the anger and frustration at his stubborn determination to diverge from the path that had been set out for him since birth.

“Do you have any plans for it?” his father asked.

“I mean to purchase a property of my own,” Charles said.

He would have to. Heywood House wasn’t coming to him in his father’s will. It wouldn’t go to his mother, either. His father merely had a life estate in the property—a fact which had remained firmly at the back of Charles’s mind since he came of age.

“A wise idea,” Arthur said. “Though, perhaps, a trifle premature given your current occupation.” He continued to look at Charles with the same inscrutable expression. “Do you have a location in mind?”

“Somewhere close.”

“I confess, that surprises me.”

“I don’t see why it should.”

“Eight years ago, you couldn’t leave Somersetshire quickly enough. And four years ago, you couldn’t even stomach spending the entirety of your leave here.” His father’s gaze became stony. “Your mother and sister were deeply grieved.”

“For which I’m heartily sorry,” Charles said. “But there was no point in remaining only to rehash the same old arguments. What good would it have done? A sailor must return to sea. It’s part of the job. One doesn’t give up their post simply because the danger becomes too great.”

“No, indeed. I daresay that, for you, the danger was the bulk of the attraction.”

Charles stiffened. But he couldn’t argue the point. He’d always yearned for more excitement in his life. It hadn’t been enough to be the best at fighting or shooting when there were no consequences to be had. Actions had to mean something. There had to be risk—serious risk—to justify the reward.

“You’ve been chasing adventures since you were a boy,” his father went on. “But war isn’t a contest of skill or a feat of strength. It’s brutal and pitiless. It changes a man.”

“As I’m well aware,” Charles said tightly.

“Yes, I believe you are. I can see it in you.” The rigidity in his father’s countenance was edged with a glint of sadness. “I’d have spared you that look.”

Charles felt an answering twinge of sorrow. It was accompanied by no little guilt. “You couldn’t shield me from everything in life. I never wanted you to.”

“I had no idea of doing so. But you're my son. My only son. More importantly, you’re your mother’s only son. If she were to lose you—”

“She hasn’t lost me. I’m alive and well and in possession of a sizeable fortune. My years at sea have changed me, I won’t dispute the fact, but I was damned successful as a sailor.”

His father’s attention sharpened, narrowing in on the single word with hawklike intensity.

Too late, Charles realized his mistake.

“Was?” Arthur repeated. “What do you mean was?”

Charles steeled himself for the argument to come. The one he’d been dreading since he’d parted ways with the Navy. “I’ve resigned my commission,” he admitted.

His father went unnaturally still. At length, he set his mug down on the small table beside him, his every movement precise. “I see.”

Charles’s stomach knotted. “I was going to tell you when I arrived, but I didn’t want to ruin the holiday with bitterness and recriminations.”

“Because you’ve put us through eight years of anguish for nothing?”

“It wasn’t for nothing.”

“Quite so. You have your forty thousand pounds.”

Charles’s brows lowered. “I didn’t mean the money. I meant—”