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The occupants turned almost as one as the door opened once more. A woman strolled in, her smile flickering from one man to the other indiscriminately. A local doxy, thought Jackson, judging by her low-cut cheap gown and the way she moved. Her bosom was almost spilling out of the tightly corseted bodice. She had bright red hair, falling in corkscrew curls around her face.
She sidled up to him. “Fancy some company, squire?”
He turned to look at her. She gasped, instinctively stepping back, before her smile hesitantly returned. Jackson winced. He was used to that reaction from people who viewed his face for the first time by now, but it never became easier.
He knew she would ignore it, if he paid her enough. He paid women like her good coin to do just that all the time. But he had neither the time nor the inclination at the moment. He drained his glass, setting it on the counter.
“Maybe another time,” he said, moving away.
Suddenly, a large man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Jackson gazed at him steadily. He had the physique of a giant, with lank brown hair, and deep-set black eyes. He was dressed in the worn clothes of a labourer. He flexed hands that looked like they could break the trunk of a tree.
“You aren’t from around here,” said the man slowly, in a thick Midlands accent. “We don’t much like strangers in these parts.”
“You don’t say,” replied Jackson, in a deceptively mild voice. “I am just leaving. Stand aside.”
The man didn’t move. Jackson saw a vein twitching in his right temple. He was spoiling for a fight. That much was obvious. And he simply didn’t have the time.
“What happened to yer face?” the man drawled. “Don’t think I have ever seen an uglier scar than that. Someone carved you up good. Couldn’t pay the debts for your cards, squire?” His voice was thick with derision.
Jackson saw red. The casual callous comment from the man, the scornful contempt, was simply too much. He had dealt with too much of it over the years. Without thinking about it any further, he punched the man square in the face. The man squealed like a stuck pig, his hands flying to his nose, as blood gushed through his fingers.
“Ye’ve broken it,” he cried hoarsely.
Jackson took a deep breath. “I daresay. Hopefully that broken nose won’t makeyoutoo ugly, now. Or at least any uglier than you already are. Good day.”
He side-stepped the man quickly, walking to the door. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the inn following him. He didn’t need to turn around to know their jaws were probably agape.
He grinned to himself, quickly walking to the stable. People often misjudged him. They thought a well born gentleman was a lily-livered walkover. But no one ever got the better of him, now. He briefly touched the scar on his right cheek. Not after that time, anyway.
He had learned much on the battlefields. Sometimes his soul was weary even thinking of it.
* * *
It was almost dark by the time Jackson finally reached the house in St. James. Wearily, he led Cassius to the mews. What he wouldn’t give for a hot meal and a bed. But that must wait. Time was of the absolute essence.
He strode into the house through the back entrance, calling out. The place seemed deserted, without even a servant in sight. He took the stairs two at a time, heading towards his father’s chambers. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. He felt strangely alert, like he did just before he had headed into battle.
He didn’t knock. He pushed open the door.
His heart pounded harder, as he took in the scene in front of him. Mrs. Clark, the housekeeper, standing beside the bed, wringing her hands. A doctor with his head bowed, sitting on a chair. And in the middle of the room, a mahogany four poster bed, with a figure lying stony still upon it, eyes closed and hands resting on his chest.
He staggered, almost falling. He was too late.
Mrs. Clark suddenly saw him. “Oh, my Lord,” she cried, rushing towards him. Her eyes were moist. “He just breathed his last not two minutes ago…”
“What?” he cried in anguish. If only he hadn’t had to stop at that accursed inn. He flexed his still throbbing right hand.
“It was very peaceful, my Lord,” continued the housekeeper, taking a deep breath. “He simply slipped away.”
Jackson walked slowly towards the bed studying the still figure upon it. His father, who was suddenly no more. The old man seemed to have shrivelled since he had last seen him. His snow-white hair was plastered to his skull. The blue eyes that had always been snapping with restless energy were closed forever.
He struggled with conflicting emotions, all raging through him, like an intense wave. They had never been close. The Duke of Merriweather had been distant with him since he was a boy. His father had never spent much time with him, and when he had, it had always been to lecture him about duty.
He had barely seen him since his return from war four years ago. His father had mocked the scar on his face, seeing it as a sign of weakness, that his son had not fought hard enough. It had never occurred to the old man that perhaps the scar was a sign that he had fought well and survived. That he was home, safe but not wholly sound.
His fists clenched. What did any of it matter now?
“See that he is laid out properly,” he said, abruptly turning away, and walking out of the room. It took all of his control not to slam the door behind him.
