Chapter 1

Chapter 1

William Montague, the Earl of Bannon, stood at the edge of the field, his eyes narrowed against the midday sun as he watched the workers struggle with the plow that had gotten stuck in the thick, clinging mud. He felt a familiar sense of determination settle over him. Despite being the master of the estate, he had never been one to stand idly by while others toiled, but not many understood that about him. Still, he was unwilling to change.

"Hold on, lads," he called out, striding toward them. "Let me take a look."

The workers paused, wiping sweat from their brows as they stepped aside to make room for William. They respected him not only for his fair and just management of the estate, but also because he never hesitated to join them in the hard labor. His willingness to get his hands dirty set him apart from many other landowners, and it fostered a deep sense of loyalty among those who worked for him.

Kneeling beside the plow, William assessed the situation. The blade was deeply embedded in the mud, and the more they had tried to pull it free, the more entrenched it had become. He grunted, rolling up his sleeves. "All right, we'll need to lift it together on my count. Ready?"

The men nodded, their faces set with determination. It would not be the first time that together, they would solve a troubling issue.

"One, two, three, heave!" William shouted, and they all heaved with all their might. The plow shifted slightly but remained stuck.

"Again," William urged, his voice calm but firm. He knew how to give orders without them sounding like orders, but rather like advice. "One, two, three, heave!"

This time, the plow broke free with a sucking sound, and they stumbled back, laughing and clapping each other on the shoulders, happy that the issue was sorted out.

"Well done," William said, a rare smile lighting up his face as he patted one of the younger workers on the back. These were those rare occasions that reminded him he was still able to smile. "Let's get it cleaned up and back in action."

As the workers moved to clean the mud from the plow, William took a moment to catch his breath. He enjoyed the physical labor—it was a way to escape from the grief that lingered in his heart. The rhythm of the work, the strain of his muscles, and the camaraderie of the men provided a temporary reprieve from the memories that haunted him.

"My Lord," one of the older workers, a loyal man by the name of Thomas McKenzie, approached him with a look of worry on his weathered face. "You don't have to do this. We of course, appreciate all the help, but an earl should be in the house, not get dirty in the field with us workers."

William nodded with a smile, appreciating the concern in the man's voice. After all, he knew his brother and his son. They all worked in his fields, side by side. "I know, Thomas. But it is good to work alongside you all. It keeps my mind clear."

Thomas nodded, understanding more than words could convey. "Aye, it does that. But don't push yourself too hard, sir. We need you in good health for many years to come."

"I'll keep that in mind," William said, patting Thomas on the shoulder.

As the day wore on, William continued to work with the men, feeling the familiar ache of tired muscles and the sweat running down his back. It was exhausting but also oddly comforting. Here, in the fields, he could lose himself in the simplicity of the tasks at hand, each one a small victory against the relentless weight of his sorrow.

They kept working for a few hours longer, when they all headed back to the manor house. As they all walked back, the chatter of the workers drifted off into the distance, and he could barely hear it any longer, as his eyes beheld the familiar outlines of Bannon Hall. It was his ancestral home, a place filled with memories of his childhood and the generations before him.

The grand manor stood proudly at the heart of the estate, its stone walls a testament to the enduring strength of his family. But now, as he walked back from the fields, his body aching from the day's labor, the sight of Bannon Hall brought a pang of sorrow.

Two years had passed since his wife's death, yet the grief still clung to him like a heavy shadow. She had succumbed to a relentless illness in one of the very rooms he now dreaded to enter. He had closed it for everyone, locking it forever as it was, just like he himself was. The house, once filled with her laughter and warmth, now seemed cold and empty, devoid of that light she exuded wherever she went.

He paused for a moment at the edge of the lawn, staring up at the grand facade. The evening light cast long shadows, and he could almost imagine her standing at one of the windows, watching him with a smile. Shaking off the memory, he forced himself to move forward, his boots leaving a trail of mud on the manicured grass.

When he finally entered the house, he was a sight to behold: muddied, disheveled, and utterly exhausted. But that exhaustion provided him with what nothing else could, a momentary peace of mind. Although that peace lasted for a very short time, he was still grateful for it.

As William reached the top of the staircase, he nearly collided with his aunt, Theresa Dalloway, who was hurrying down the hallway toward him. She was a woman in her early fifties, with a kind, lined face that bore the marks of both joy and sorrow.

Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a neat bun, and she wore a simple yet elegant dress that spoke of quiet dignity. Her eyes, a deep, understanding blue, reflected her concern as she took in his appearance.

"William, my dear," she exclaimed softly upon seeing him. "What on earth have you done to yourself?"

He forced a tired smile. "Just a bit of work in the fields, Aunt Theresa. Nothing to worry yourself about."

She reached out and gently brushed some mud from his sleeve. "You are covered in dirt, and you look utterly exhausted. You cannot keep doing this to yourself. Besides, an earl is not supposed to be in field with his workers, you know that."

"I'm fine, Aunt Theresa," he insisted, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed him. It was indeed a long day. "The work helps."

His aunt sighed, her expression softening. "I know it does, my dear, but you must take care of yourself. Grief is a heavy burden to carry alone."

William looked away, the familiar ache in his chest tightening. "I just... I need to keep busy."

His aunt nodded, understanding exactly what he was referring to. It was hard on all of them. "I know. But you also need to rest, to heal. She wouldn't want you to drive yourself into the ground."

He swallowed hard, her words hitting that place inside of him he had been trying to keep hidden away from the rest of the world. "I know. It's just... hard."

"Yes, but remember that it is not only about you," she reminded him of the most painful thing of all. "Georgiana has refused to have dinner again. That child needs you."

"I know," he said, feeling defeated.

His daughter Georgiana was only ten years old, yet she had already suffered one of the hardest blows life could deal to a child, and that was the loss of a parent. A mother, nonetheless. Sometimes, William wished it could have been he who left them.

He felt that Rebecca, his late wife, would have known how to comfort Georgiana. She would have known how to keep Bannon Hall in the thriving state it always was. Unlike him, who allowed it to slowly start to decay. He knew it all, and yet, he was powerless to change anything.

"I'm worried, Will," his aunt said, softly touching his elbow. "Your life is in utter disarray. You need to bring some order to it. That will help Georgiana as well. She needs someone, Will. A mother."

William sighed, acknowledging her words. "I know, Aunt. I know everything. But I haven't met anyone suitable for the role."

"You mean, you haven't even tried," she said, touching a sore spot. "You have been locked up here for the past two years, and Georgiana has been locked up with you, not of her own will. She is a child, William. She needs the company of other children as well. This isolation is not healthy for her, I far."

"What would you have me do? Marry just anyone?" he asked, his voice growing tense.

His aunt shook her head. "No, of course not. I am not saying you should marry just anyone. You need a partner, someone who knows you, someone who can help you manage the estate and most importantly, someone who can take care of Georgiana. You know that Victoria has offered many times to come and help."

William's expression darkened. Victoria Livingston was his cousin on his late wife's side of the family, whom he had not seen much of during the time his wife was alive, but who appeared very eager to come for longer visits. He knew exactly what she wanted, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Victoria is only after my money," he said gravely. "She doesn't care about me or Georgiana. I don't want such people in my home."

His aunt looked at him with weary eyes, her age and exhaustion evident. "I am not saying you should marry her, but you need to consider your options, William. You know that I am seven and fifty years of age. I am not getting any younger. I won't be always around, and it would make me relieved to know that you have someone by your side when my time comes."

William frowned. "I don't want to talk about that, Aunt Theresa."

He had enough death talk. He didn't need any more of it.

"I know, but that is your problem, Will. You don't want to have the important conversations. You prefer running away from what will inevitably happen. Is that how you want to live your life? And most importantly, is that how you want Georgiana to live?"

William's heart softened as he looked at his aunt. As always, she was right. She had been a pillar of support for him throughout those two years. Now, it was time to share the burden with someone else. Georgiana deserved a mother.

"All right, Aunt Theresa," he finally acquiesced. "I shall think about it."

"Please do," she urged him. "For all our sakes."

As she turned to leave, William felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders. He knew she was right, but the thought of marrying again, of opening his heart to another woman, felt impossible. His love for his deceased wife was still too strong, his grief too raw.

His aunt paused turning in the direction of the corridor, looking back at him with a soft, pleading expression. "William, I just want you to be happy. We all do."

He nodded, forcing a small smile. "I know, Aunt Theresa. And I appreciate it."

When she left, the silence of the hallway enveloped him. He felt torn between duty and his own aching heart. The estate needed a lady's touch, and Georgiana needed a mother figure, but the idea of replacing his wife felt like a betrayal.

He made his way to his room, the conversation replaying in his mind. He knew he couldn't ignore the issue forever. His aunt's exhaustion and Georgiana's neglect were clear signs that something had to change. But the path forward seemed murky, filled with uncertainties and fears.