Rain In Hertfordshire

Home-coming.

It still rained in Hertfordshire madly, mournfully; as if the heaven had slit open its wrist in some unforgiven, unforgetten, unremembered agitation.
The world framed by the window still drenched on the outside when liquid diamonds ploughed the earth vehemently and inside, it still was all vapour on the glass unless you ventured tracing it with fingers, contouring words and shapes beyond reason or deduction.

Not that you did try to reason it. Or deduce. But then, who knew what may happen the next monent. Back then, things had changed in a day. Overnight.

Five years later, it was raining the day Penfield returned to Hertfordshire, instating himself to the country house he had just brought here.

Why here?

Why Hertfordshire?

With so much of a history? Why not Winchester or Devon or somewhere greener? Or the coasts of Spain?
Ashleyton was not far from here and at times like these, he wondered if it had been a mere stroke of transparent stupidity to have exhausted so much of his time and money on dragging open the wound he had nearly died stitching back.

Now. Here. In this rain and the dismal hills.
With the raindrops so insistent on reaching under his flesh and the stitches he had sewn so weak...

....well, to say the least, like words on the windowpane, this too was something he had done just because it ought to be done. Beyond reason and deduction.

It was known as The Halls, locally and though it stood nowhere against Ashleyton, the estate had its beauty to flaunt off.
The house itself was clean after the labor enforced on it, but it still had the sense of old dust in its air, the sense of unliving emptiness. Excusable, the place had been vacant for four decades now.
The garden, however, was flourishing in the rich rain. Wild roses.

Daisies.

Right now, he stood by the window in the polished clean dining room and outside it- of course- was raining, welcoming Penfield back into the old chaos.

"Will there be tea, sir?" A heavy, homely voice inquired in a subdued voice, breaking his reverence. "Refreshments?"

"No, thank you." Penfield turned and acknowledged the bow from the keeper of The Halls. "But I speak for myself, so I would suggest you ask Ms. Laine too."

"We ventured, Sir." Bart said. "She is resting."

Penfield's expression remained impervious outwardly but inside, he had made a big show of rolling his eyes.
It seemed to him that all his future camaraderie desired and mastered only one recreation all day long.

To sleep.

And it was not_ even remotely_ a concern of well-being. Or disheartened temperament, for that matter.

She was just that. In London, she would be sleeping whenever sought. A lot. And for the rare times she was awake, she would be out with her maid, venturing parks and coffee-houses. She pretended she was nothing much of an eater, taking dainty bites of food at home.

But Penfield strongly suspected she loved cakes and pastries and devoured a Substantial amount of them on her outings.

Her slight figure did a good job concealing her deeds.

"Well then." He returned his gaze outside the window. "Go on with your other preparations. I doubt, however, that we will have any visitors in this pour."

Bart straightened. "That has been taken care of sir."

"Had Ms. Laine ordered for unpacking before she retired to sleep?" Penfield found himself asking. "It is still afternoon but her commodities should be all well prepared for the evening. Please do ask her maid to do that. Last minute rush is to avoided as far as Sarah Laine is concerned."