Brock hadn’t visited his family’s burial plot since his return, and now he remembered why. The area had been overgrown the night he’d stopped, before he’d fled his father’s home to make his way as a soldier. Times had not changed: The small fenced area was even now so overgrown by wild grass and summer flowers that he had to pull it out by the handful to see his family’s final resting spots.
Resting side by side, his parents’ joint headstone read simply, “Here lies the 5th Lord and Lady Haversham. May their eternal splendor be ever restful and serene.”
He hadn’t the faintest idea who had crafted the inscription.
And a part of him wondered what his would say. Possibly, something as asinine and useless as his parents? ‘Here lies Brock, the 6th Lord Haversham, who passed devoid of an heir.’
Or would someone see fit to capture him as he was this day, ‘Here Lies Brock, the 6th Lord Haversham, an idiot who almost fell in love with his enemy. And then treated her poorly as only a coward would do.’
Either way, he had accomplished little of note in his time back. There would be nothing for future generations to look back proudly on. He had not respected his father as a good son would have. He had not honored the memory of his mother by carrying on the family name. Instead, he had coveted his family’s adversary, still longed to hold her again. He’d also alienated his only living relative to the degree that neither could stomach the other.
Brock had returned home with grand plans to right the wrong of his past, to renew and renovate his family home, and to seek justice for his family. But all he’d done thus far was botch everything he touched.
“I thought I would find you here.”
Brock turned from his parents’ headstone to find Harold, who was on horseback outside the black wrought-iron fence that enclosed his family’s burial plot. “My apologies, I did not hear you ride up.”
“I highly doubt you would have heard a herd of wild stallions pass by.” Harold tied his reins around his saddle horn and dismounted. His booted feet hit the ground solidly. “You left hours ago and I became worried.”
Brock realized in that moment, he was not completely alone in his endeavors. Harold, as his friend, could always be counted on. They were closer than brothers. Much as Rodney and he should be, but it was a compatible relationship that Brock and his cousin had never attained.
“I have been overly concerned with the stables and have neglected my family,” Brock confessed. “I must send someone round to repair the fencing and clear the weeds.”
Harold walked through the gate and stood beside Brock. “You’ve had much on your mind, my friend.”
Both of their gazes returned to the stones before them.
“Excuses, always excuses.”
“You are too hard on yourself.”
Brock looked to Harold. “There is no one else to be hard on. I have failed so many of my obligations.”
Harold raised his hand and set it on Brock’s shoulder, reassuringly. “There is time, Brock. You only returned recently. No one would expect you to attain your life’s goals in a month’s time.”
“Sometimes, I wonder if ten years’ time would be suitable for the task,” Brock sighed. “I wonder if all the effort is even worth it. People have very high expectations.”
Harold chuckled. “People? Or yourself?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. But what do you think people expect of you? And why do you care so much?”
Brock turned to his brothers’ graves. “I know naught what anyone expects ,but I assume it consists of more than being duped by the same woman—more than merely updating my estate and settling down with some young chit.” While their bodies may be buried here, their life’s blood remained in London, soaked into the field where they’d taken their last breaths.
“Will we be departing for London soon?” Harold changed the subject.
Brock nodded, still distracted. “Yes, we should be on our way back to town. I have a young woman I owe a ride through Hyde Park.”
Truly, Brock wanted nothing less than to spend the afternoon listening to the senseless chatter of a young debutante.