Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The air was crisp and cold, and Ernest shuddered in the winter wind. January was not kind in Bath that year, and he wished for a warmer coat.

Still, it was a morbid reminder. At least he could stand there, in a coat, trying to find a semblance of warmth.

His eyes tracked over the war memorial, and he knew that many men no longer had the option of standing in the cold even, for their bodies were long put in the ground. He shifted, his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the other lords from the area in Bath. He stood outside Bellott's Hospital, a stranger among war veterans. A stranger yet honoured all the same. There was a dour mood in the air: the knowledge that they were all alive to tell their tales and the tales of the fallen, but their dead comrades were not.

"He fought valiantly, did he not?" the quiet voice next to him asked. Sometimes Ernest thought he had got used to the yelling of Graham Courtenay in the field hospital, the constant sound of his cries to help him, to announce a new patient, to call out to ground a man who lingered close to the precipice of death. So, when the man was quiet and his voice soft in grief and respect, Ernest could only see it as yet another unfair change.

War changes men, land, and lives. For what else would it do? He thought morbidly. He did not feel more accomplished for serving. Perhaps if he had been a soldier, then maybe. But mostly, he felt guilty. That he was not one of the names etched on the monument in front of Bellott's.

"He did," Ernest finally answered. "He was a good captain."

Graham held out a flask for Ernest. "Here. He would appreciate it if we drank to him."

"Indeed, he would," Ernest sighed as he took a mouthful of whisky and passed it back to his old friend.

Together, they looked at the monument, swallowed their mouthfuls, and nodded when they were done. "To Archibald White," Ernest murmured. "Brave captain, audacious viscount, and a most wonderful friend. May they honour you in your afterlife."

"I thought we would make it through together," Graham admitted. "Is that foolish?"

"War takes good men," Ernest sighed.

"And leaves all the lesser ones to grieve." It should have been a joke, but his tone fell too flat for the jest, but Ernest could only agree. Neither of them was the viscount. He had filled and commanded a room effortlessly. He had loved his betrothed with every beat of his heart, and now the only embrace he would feel was that of a shallow grave.

"I heard you funded the memorial," Graham said, clearing his throat, and when Ernest glanced at his friend, he could see the grief lining his eyes in red. Fatigue settled beneath them. While he was impeccably groomed, the six months since the Battle of Waterloo had taken a large toll on him.

"I did." Ernest nodded. "There was something utterly unbearable about the fact that his body would be lying in a shallow grave. He … He deserved more than that, so I funded this."

The marble monument read: Archibald White, viscount and captain. He served valiantly so others survived and returned home. May his soul rest and his heart know peace. War hero in the Battle of Waterloo.

It had his birth and death dates, and Ernest could not bear to look at how his friend was taken too soon. He shook his head and stepped back. He could visit often, at least, and face his grief in a quiet, personal way.

They looked at the monument for their fallen brother for another moment longer before Graham motioned to a nearby bench. "Shall we sit? It has been quite some time since we were last in one another's company."

Ernest led the way, striding over to the bench. His friend's dark hair was already peppered with grey, despite only being in his thirties, and his green eyes were duller than before the war. They had both seen horrors and weathered them.

"How have you been?" Ernest asked. "It has been many months since we spoke."

"Six months is a rather long time, especially when we knew one another so closely in the field hospital. Sometimes, I cannot get the ringing of patients' screams out of my head. Sometimes, I wake up, swearing I can still see the blood on my hands. It is cruel, is it not, that the time passes and feels like an age for friends not to see one another, but the nightmares persist after such a length of time."

"Very cruel," Ernest agreed, pressing his lips together. "I feel as though my life has been forged by grief as of late. My uncle, my cousin, my friend." He looked longways at Graham. "I am glad to have seen you."

"You are glad I am at least one person still alive, you mean," he said, trying to laugh, but it was too quiet.

"No, I am glad for you. You are my oldest friend, and even if our lives have become shrouded in death, then at least we are there together."

Graham nodded, taking another mouthful from his flask before handing it to Ernest, who drank as well. The whisky burned, but it was a welcome sensation.

"Are you not suffering nightmares?" Graham asked.

"I have been rather occupied of late," Ernest confessed. "My sleeping has … Not been best prioritized."

"Ah."

He nodded. "I do not wish to wake up my household with my own shouts of nightmares."

"How is life as the new Earl of Bannerdown?"

Ernest winced as he burrowed down deeper into his coat. "It is … everything I thought it would be. Busy, endless paperwork, and I must confess I have been throwing myself wholeheartedly into my work since returning to England to avoid facing Lady Florence. She is young, and I do not know what to say to her. She has a governess, however, so she is not truly alone."

"You do not think she would be comforted more by family? By you? You knew this fate was coming for you since you received word from the barrister."

"I know." He sighed. There was a tune echoing in his head. A voice and a melody he could not quite stop hearing. He even glanced around, wondering if somebody was playing an instrument. A pianoforte coming through an open window, perhaps. But there was nothing, and he knew that despite not being able to place the tune, he could not stop thinking about it. Ernest tried to ignore it, instead focusing on the landscape ahead.

The field behind them that housed Bellott's hospital faced the old street ahead. On such a winter day, the street looked bleak, and he turned his attention back to his friend.

"Are you yet betrothed?" Graham asked. "I recall many nights of teasing you about your new obligations to find a countess."

Ernest sighed, almost a laugh, a sound of pure resignation. "It should be easy, shouldn't it? I find a lovely woman who suits me—or who doesn't but would make a good countess—and marry her. But … sometimes the dealings of the Ton feel so frivolous compared to what we faced out there. To what our purpose was."

"That is because you have not always been of the Ton," he pointed out. "To those born and raised among it, it is their game of chess. It is the most terrifying ordeal of their lives. It is exciting, yes, but it is a ruinous thing for both men and women."

"And you haven't been avoiding any duties, my friend?" Ernest teased. But Graham only shrugged.

"No," he said. Ernest almost wished to be back in that tent, even on the battlefield, if only to see the excitement and laughter in his friend once again. "I have become the chairman of this hospital right here. And … Well, I have been making excellent strides. Like you have funded the monument in honour of our fallen friend, I wish to do something too. I am looking to have a new wing of the hospital opened in honour of him. The White Wing, perhaps. It could be specifically for veterans with complex physical medical care. Perhaps even a place where they can stay and recover long-term."

Ernest liked that idea and smiled tiredly at his friend. "I agree. That would be most wonderful. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to write to me. I shall drop everything."

"Perhaps I might have you as my assistant this time around." And there was a glimmer of the old, jesting Graham Courtenay back, just for a moment, before that distracted seriousness overtook him as he gazed outward at the street. "But Ernest, I do think you need to finally talk to your ward."

"I do," he insisted. "We talk at mealtimes. Briefly, but it is something."

"She needs proper conversation."

"She has her governess."

"From family." Graham gave him a small smile. "She might need you more than you realize, Ernest. If you are drowning yourself in working to avoid her, then that is all she will know. A deceased family and her other living relative who did not want anything to do with her. Soon, she will debut, and she will need you."

"I know," he admitted. "And I feel wretched."

"Then do something about it, my friend. You have faced worse horrors than a girl who is ten and six."

Ernest scowled, knowing how utterly correct his friend was. "I shall. But first, I would like to honour our fallen friend a moment longer."

Graham nodded as they returned to the monument.

***

Just outside of Bath, Little Harkwell House stood tall among the rolling fields of the countryside. Surrounded by trees and hedges on the outskirts of the grounds, the manor itself was proud against the darkening afternoon sky.

Windows were closed to keep in the heat, and from his study window, Ernest could see a bird that landed on the manor's back garden, pecking away at the dry, hard soil. It gave up moments later, soaring off. He almost felt envious of the bird. He was trapped within the manor, and while he loved it—preferred it even to Bannerdown House in Mayfair—it reminded him of the title and wealth he should not have inherited.

He set down his pen, pausing his work.

You have faced worse horrors than a girl who is ten and six.

A deceased family and her other living relative who did not want anything to do with her…

His friend's words weighed on his mind, causing him to mull over them as he shuffled his paperwork, briefly thinking about burying himself in yet another ledger. The Bannerdown accounts were impeccably kept, but there was some disarray due to the nature of their deaths. Some accounts still had not been settled, and Ernest continued wading through the intricacies of life as an Earl.

"Which now includes looking after your ward more than just ensuring her financial security," he muttered to himself. "Comfort, Ernest. You must provide comfort for her. Let her know you are there."

So, he stood up from his desk, sighed, and ventured into the hallway.

Little Harkwell House was a brightly coloured house, full of pale hues and bold furnishings. Apparently, the former countess had an eye for beauty and loved collecting statues and artifacts, and her husband had delighted in her every whim. Ernest had definitely seen the accounts from their spending on decor and trinkets, and as he walked past bust after bust of mythological figures and figureheads, he understood why.

Approaching the music room on the floor below, he lingered just next to the doorway, listening in on where Florence was having her music lesson.

"Well done, Lady Florence." The voice of Florence's new governess, who had begun her position three weeks prior, rang out musically in the room. Even when she was not singing, her voice had a melodic lull to it. Ernest kept quiet, eavesdropping, hoping that none of his staff caught him in the act.

"Can you continue the scales on the pianoforte while you sing them?" the governess asked.

"I can try, Miss Gundry," came the voice of Ernest's ward. Her voice was soft and gentle, both were, but it was clear Florence's still held that element of naivety and youth. "How is this?"

As the piano keys were pressed, the young girl sang the notes. Only one of them sounded slightly off, and much to Ernest's delight at recognizing such a thing, the governess corrected her gently.

"We have been working on a song to show the earl, have we not?"

For a moment, Ernest thought he had been caught, but he realized the two were still speaking to one another.

"I shall show you the next few lines of the song. May I?"

Ernest watched as Miss Claire Gundry took a seat on the piano bench. Her hair, the colour of shining wheat right as the harvest was due, was swept back into a low bun and decorated with a white ribbon, with a few strands framing her face. They concealed her eyes as she bent over the instrument, leaning her whole body into the notes as she began to play, but Ernest knew her eyes were brown—a decadent chocolate brown—and that beneath her right eye sat a mole that he had not stopped looking at, endeared by the beauty mark so many women tried to draw on, imitating the French.

Her hands trilled over the keys as she began to sing. Glancing at Florence and nodding, the young girl began to join in the parts of the melody she knew. Together, they sang a hauntingly beautiful duet. And at once, Ernest realized it was the very tune he could not get out of his head all morning when he'd been outside the hospital.

It was Miss Gundry's voice in his mind. He leaned on the wall just out of view, watching his ward's governess smiling. She was patient when she stopped Florence at certain parts to correct a note sung incorrectly and gentle when she instructed a new part of the tune.

The song filled the music room, only on the landing below Ernest's study, and when even the slightest noise drifted through Little Harkwell House, it was no wonder he hadn't stopped hearing their song. It is beautiful, at least, he thought.

"You are a very quick learner, Lady Florence," Miss Gundry praised as their duet came to an end. "With how you pick up music and languages, I am sure you shall have a suitor in no time."

Her voice was tinged with a hint of melancholy as she said it, and Ernest couldn't help wondering what Miss Gundry's full story was. He hadn't pried much, only eager to hire a governess for Florence's last year before debuting.

"We shall continue our lessons tomorrow," Miss Gundry told her.

"Thank you, Miss Gundry." Florence's voice also reflected that melancholy, and Ernest could not help wondering if it was at being alone once again upon her governess's departure. Or perhaps it was at the music? Ernest should have known these things offered support for the girl, but even now, he could not convince himself to take one step into the room.

But he was too busy focusing on that, and he did not notice when the governess packed up her books and bid his ward goodbye, walking out of the music room. He could not hide quick enough, and the young woman collided with him.

She let out a harsh noise as her books tumbled to the floor.

"My Lord!" she cried out, rushing to pick up her books as he did. "I am sorry. I did not see you there."

She paused, looking up, and her eyes caught his. A faint blush rose to her cheeks at his attention, but he could not look away until he realized how long he had been gazing at her.

"Oh—of course. Right. No, do forgive me. I should not have been lingering." He reached for one of her strewn books at the same time as her. Their hands brushed, and he pulled back sharply, clearing his throat. Claire still reached for the book, picking it up herself. Awkwardly, he stood back up.

"I—well—apologies for … knocking your books to the ground, Miss Gundry."

"It is my own fault, My Lord. I should have been looking where I was going."

"No, no, do not trouble yourself with blame."

Stop going in circles, you fool! he chided himself. Why am I here? Ah, yes, to ask about Florence's progress and to see how I might get involved more.

"I—" As soon as he opened his mouth to ask, a call echoed down the hall, a shrill beckoning that shivered down his spine unpleasantly. Lady Katherine came walking towards him, having taken to her position and place in Little Harkwell House very well. Of course she would, he thought. She was a former lady of the Ton.

And yet her husband, a physician, remained back in London, noticeably without his wife. Lady Katherine's eyes darted between Ernest and Claire, and a slight frown marred her forehead.

"What are you doing?" she barked.

"I was simply checking on Lady Florence's progress. I, unfortunately, was in the way of Miss Gundry's exit and—"

"Well, do not loiter, boy. It is rather unbecoming of you. You are an earl now, Ernest. I require your presence in my solar and make haste."

He met Claire's gaze, humiliated by his mother's speech. She only fought a smile, ducking her head. She curtsied once to him before curtsying to his mother.

"Lord Bannerdown," she said. "Lady Katherine."

Katherine returned a tight smile as Claire turned and fled down the hallway, clutching her books. Ernest could not take his eyes off the sway of her blue skirt around her ankles or how her white blouse puffed at the sleeves but emphasized her slender neck. And the way she had not waited for him to pick up her books but had done it herself …

He rather liked that. Other women feigned dropping their fans at balls just so a gentleman would pick it up, and while Ernest would be a gentleman and help, Claire's independence had her swooping right down immediately.

A strand of Claire's hair came loose as she hurried away. At the end of the hallway, before she turned out of sight, she glanced back at him. He flushed with warmth at being caught watching yet again. She disappeared around the corner, and Ernest returned to focus on the clearing of his mother's throat.

"I requested you make haste, dear," she said.

"Of course, Mother," he said.

I shall enquire about Lady Florence's progress later, he vowed.