Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

T he carriage clattered to a halt; the horses snorting and stamping their hooves. Captain Daniel Blackwood stepped down, boots crunching on the gravel drive of his family estate.

The familiar scent of roses and honeysuckle from the nearby gardens filled the air, momentarily easing the tension in his broad shoulders. He gazed up at the sprawling manor, taking in the ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows that stared back like the eyes of an old friend. He hadn't imagined he would see this place again. Though the grounds were wilder than he remembered, it appeared as if time had stood still during his absence—a stark contrast to the turmoil that churned within him.

Daniel moved slowly up the drive, shoulders rigid beneath his uniform. Weariness from the sustained sleepless nights haunted by the horrors of the battlefield that he'd ignored for years seemed to take hold with each successive step forward. His hands, calloused from wielding sabre and pistol, flexed unconsciously at his sides. Was he ready to return to this place of comfort and warmth? Or would it only emphasize the scars left on his soul?

At the entrance, the heavy oak door swung open. "Welcome home, Captain Blackwood," the head butler, Jenkins, greeted him, along with a line of uniformed staff standing at attention behind him. They looked upon their returning master with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. He did not remember all of them. They would have only heard rumors of the man who had left for war years ago. "It's good to see you back, sir."

Stepping across the threshold, Daniel let out a measured breath. Here was the life he had fought for, the peace he had craved in the bloody chaos of battle. But now that he had returned, could he truly leave the war behind him? Or did it lurk within him, a specter only he could see?

"Thank you, Jenkins." Daniel managed a quick nod to the rest of the staff, his throat tightening. He scanned their faces, his mind easily processing the emotions on each, as if they were his new soldiers on the battlefield. He appreciated their loyalty, but the weight of the memories he carried made the prospect of pleasantries unbearable. With another nod, he dismissed them, indicating his desire for solitude. As they dispersed, Daniel could sense their whispered questions and furtive glances, but he steeled himself—unwilling to let his guard down.

As he walked toward the house, and through the doors, Daniel's mind wandered to his late mother, Lady Priscilla Blackwood. Her gentle presence had once been the heart of this estate, and he couldn't help but feel her absence in every corner. Though she had passed away before he left for war, her guidance and nurturing spirit still lingered in his thoughts. His father had remarried shortly after her death and had moved to Scotland, taking his three younger sisters with him. He'd stayed on in Brighton, at Blackwood Manor, but when he'd gone to war, the rest of the staff took care of the other country estates.

Daniel continued down the marble hallway. He paused in the center of the space, taking in the familiar grandeur of the estate's foyer. Marble floors gleamed, not a speck of dust in sight. Vases of fresh flowers adorned side tables, filling the air with the faint scent of roses and lilies, his mother's two favorite flowers. It was all so pristine, so perfect. Just as he remembered from his childhood. Yet, now it felt foreign somehow. This grand house full of memories no longer seemed like home. Not after the things he had witnessed. The things he had done.

The echo of his boots on the marble sounded unnatural in the cavernous space. He realized he was walking with the instinctual quiet tread of a soldier in the field, wary of making any sound that could draw enemy fire.

Old habits. Would he ever truly leave the battlefield behind?

Daniel felt the butler's concerned gaze upon him. Jenkins had been like a second father to Daniel while he was growing up.

"Was it a difficult journey from London, sir?" Jenkins inquired.

"The journey was endurable," Daniel said. And compared to everything else he'd been through over the last five years, the rough roads were easy.

"Your rooms have been aired and prepared for your arrival," the butler continued. "We were not sure about your plans, and how long you would be staying, but we've done our best to make sure that everything is as it should be while you are here."

"I am here for the present. That is all I know." Blackwood Manor didn't feel like home, but nowhere did. His home had been out of doors, in leaking tents. The memories flooded him. Daniel glanced away, avoiding Jenkins's compassionate gaze. His hands flexed instinctively, the ghostly memory of his pistol heavy in his grip. He could almost smell the acrid tang of gunpowder, hear the screams of the wounded ...

With effort, he wrenched his mind away from the dark memories that clung like battle smoke. He was home now. The war was over .

Yet within his heart, the battle still raged on.

"We shall plan on you staying then," Jenkins said. "I'm afraid the grounds are in quite a state of disrepair, especially the back gardens. We have not yet hired someone to take care of the grounds."

Daniel nodded, knowing he needed to be informed on such matters, but not having an ounce of strength to care about the grounds. Daniel pushed open the heavy oak doors, entering the dimly lit foyer, inspecting the room. Everything was tidy and in its proper place, reflecting the order and discipline ingrained in him.

"Shall I have a bath drawn to refresh yourself?"

Daniel hesitated, longing to scrub away the lingering dirt and grit of travel. But the thought of shedding his uniform felt dangerously exposing.

"Just tea," he said at last.

"Right away, sir." The butler bowed, then paused.

Daniel knew that look. The man never hesitated to speak his mind when Daniel was a boy. But it seemed as if the years that had passed had changed that. "What is it, Jenkins?"

Jenkins studied Daniel with concern in his eyes. "You must be famished after your journey, sir." He paused. "Tea is ready, but Cook has also prepared a hearty beef stew."

"Very well, Jenkins. I should not like to displease Mrs. Miller."

Jenkins smiled broadly. "I'll have Sally bring a bowl to your room right away. "

"Thank you, Jenkins."

Jenkins turned to go, then hesitated again. "It's wonderful to have you back safely, Captain. We've all missed you terribly."

Emotion constricted Daniel's throat. He simply nodded, unable to find words. Jenkins bowed respectfully and left Daniel alone with his tumultuous thoughts.

Daniel made his way up the grand staircase, his boots heavy on the polished wood steps. He leaned heavily on the smooth banister for support, as weariness seeped into his bones. The smooth banister brought forth a hundred memories to his mind. How often had he slid down it as a reckless youth, so full of confidence and hope? Now, he climbed it slowly—his footsteps weighed down by the long march of war. His walk was stiffer than it had been. And the pain in his shoulder from where he'd sustained an injury had not completely healed as expected.

At the top of the stairs he paused, glancing down the shadowed hallway that led to his childhood room. But it was not the shelter of boyhood he craved.

Daniel walked down the long hallway of the east wing, boots thudding dully on the faded rugs. He knew each door and portrait by heart, memories flickering through his mind.

The last door on the right was his first destination—his mother's old study. Hesitantly, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

The room was just as she had left it. Sunlight streamed through the large window overlooking the gardens. Her antique desk sat neatly arranged, quills and ledgers tidy in their proper places. The faint scent of lavender still lingered in the air.

Daniel crossed the room slowly, fingers trailing over the worn leather chair behind the desk. How often had he sat on his mother's lap as a boy while she had written her letters? Her patient voice had guided his childish scrawl across the page.

He blinked against the sting in his eyes, overcome with bittersweet nostalgia. Gently, reverently, he picked up the small silver framed portrait on the corner of the desk.

His mother's kind eyes and warm smile gazed up at him, a treasured memento of simpler times. Times before war and loss had etched their scars upon his heart.

"I'm home, Mother," he whispered.

For a long moment, Daniel stood motionless in the quiet room that still held so much of her presence. The ghosts of the past hovered close, bringing both comfort and sorrow.

Finally, he set the portrait down, squaring his shoulders. There would be time to unravel the tangled threads of memory. For now, it was enough to find a small measure of peace.

With one last glance around the sunlit study, Daniel turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

He retraced his steps down the hallway, stopping in front of the bedchamber he'd claimed as an adult .

The door creaked softly as he entered the simply furnished room. It held only the bare necessities—a bed, a washstand, a trunk for clothing. No ornamentation or personal effects. Much like his tent during the war, temporary and utilitarian.

Daniel moved to the single window overlooking the gardens. The sunlit grounds below seemed part of another world, one untouched by suffering or bloodshed.

With a ragged exhale, he turned away, removed his coat and sank onto the edge of the bed.

A knock at the door made him flinch. Elbows on knees, he dropped his head into his hands. Behind closed eyes, the screams of the dying echoed once more. The acrid smell of gunpowder stung his nostrils.

He had left the battlefield, yet it had not left him.

The knock came again, this time louder, and with it the intense pounding of the battlefield raged inside.

"Sir?" a small voice called from outside the door.

"Come in," he called hoarsely, having the presence of mind to push the past away from his thoughts for a moment. In the future, he would need to inform his staff that knocking would not be necessary when servants were expected.

Sally, a wispish servant, stepped into the room, bearing a tray with stew and tea.

She set the offering down on the small table, then dropped into a curtsy. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"This will be all. Thank you. "

Sally nodded and quietly took her leave.

Once more alone, Daniel picked up the spoon, willing himself to eat, though he had little appetite.

The comforts of home surrounded him, yet peace eluded him still. He wondered if he would ever find it again. He could not run from this forever. The war had changed him. He longed to be closer to his family; but Scotland—where the rest of his family now lived—was not his home. Brighton brought with it its own challenges and unpleasant memories, and yet, the thought of leaving to go somewhere else hadn't seemed right either. He knew he needed to heal, but how to do that still eluded him. And time with his fellow soldiers in London hadn't made that clearer, so he'd been drawn back to Brighton—to a place he'd thought he'd never visit again. With a heavy heart, he stared into shadows gathering as dusk fell, unable to escape the ghosts of the past.

The first night back in Blackwood Manor, Daniel did not sleep well. The nightmares began and refused to relent. Sweat poured down his temples, his breathing swift and shallow. Daniel flung himself out of his bed, his shoulder stiff from the uncomfortable position. He threw back the curtains, but the night was still dark. He pulled a chair close to the window and tried to steady his breathing as he gazed at the inky black waves just beyond his property. Stars dotted the sky, and he took a deeper, more measured breath.

Those same stars had comforted him through many long nights. It was better to be awake than to sleep when the night terrors plagued his dreams. He sat for hours, unfocused as he took in the calming sound of the waves, and the night sky above. There was some solace, some reprieve. But the nights would be long if he spent every one of them awake.

Heavy sleep finally fell on his eyes as dawn caressed the horizon, lightening up the world, and keeping the nightmares at bay. Suddenly, he jerked awake. There was a sound—a rustling that hadn't been there before. And something else. Perhaps it was only the wind. But all of his senses were heightened—the blood pounded in his veins as he prepared for whatever the battle needed. He rubbed the drowsiness away from his eyes, finally remembering where he was. He was far from the battlefield.

But then he saw it. A white figure in his garden. A specter in his grounds. He shut his eyes tight, willing the figure to leave. He'd been plagued with many things during the war, and sometimes it was hard to trust his own sight.

He dared to open his eyes again, but the figure was still there.

"You're not at war anymore," he said to himself. His pulse raced, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. The help he'd received in London in dealing with the physical ailments of war had been sufficient. His shoulder would take time, but eventually he might see improvement. His scars might dim with time.

But the ailments of his mind were not solved, and if anything, they were becoming worse. He'd heard a lot of advice, and heeded some of it—one was to come to Brighton to be close to the sea.

There were plenty of reasons to avoid Brighton, but the prospect of living near the sea was the reason to come back. Daniel dressed immediately. He needed to confront his fear—he couldn't let it control him. He would challenge the mirages his brain put in front of him and face this specter. Then he would settle on the shore at the edge of his property and listen to the waves.