Faces of the Wind

Chapter 51

When Adrian stepped out into freedom, there was a light drizzle, and the breeze was chilly but refreshing. He thought he would rot in that damp stone room. Well, for the first time, his aunt was his heroine.

Steventon seemed very distant; as if on a different part of the planet. He could not wait to see Arden. He took a coach to his aunt's house in Mayfair to wash and change before he was to bid his friends and neighbors farewell and be reunited with his wife. His heart lurched at the thought. What if she hadn't been loyal? What if she no longer fancied him? What if she was gone altogether? She ran from home once; how difficult would it be to do it again now that she was stronger and more experienced?

***

It was two days before he arrived with his aunt Catherine in Steventon. She asked the coachman to stop. Adrian wondered if they have neared her house. He peered through the window and saw his house – or the house that was once his home – in the distance. They have reached his father's land.

"I thought you were eager to be home," Catherine said, "go on."

"This is no longer my home," he replied, staring at the house still. A cloud of smoke rose from the chimney and dissipated in the overcast sky. He wondered who sat by the fireplace inside. It rained, but the wind was not strong enough to disturb their journey.

"What nonsense!" She frowned, "Get off!"

"I want to see my wife first." He felt strange using the term 'my wife.' No one believed him likely to ever marry.

She knocked with her cane on the coach's roof. Two men opened the door. "Is anything the matter, m'lady?" One of them asked. "Throw this one out," she replied, and Adrian snorted. He was taken by surprise when the two men dragged him out by force. "You're mad!" He exclaimed, releasing himself as soon as his feet were stable on the ground.

Catherine scooted in her place unheeding and pulled the coach's door to shut it. The men mounted and the coach lurched on.

He stood a while watching the coach dwindle away. His hair and coat were now soaked. Grudgingly, he made his way to the house. A bitter feeling gripped at his heart and throat. He wondered if he would see Mrs. Dusteby... or probably one of his uncle's sons? Perhaps his uncle Arthur himself... sitting in his father's chair. He wasn't sure who to hate, but he needed to direct his wrath towards someone yet found himself the most deserving.

It felt as if his years in London have been a quick dream. Was any of that real? He remembered the day William Thunderton dropped him in this same spot after fetching him from gaol. News reached him a year ago that Peter Gilbert did not hang, but he was serving a sentence, which probably was not much more merciful. He would walk out a sickly man—if he ever walks out.

The image of a weary, distressed Irene crossed his mind. She stood in those same fields years ago – a beauty turned ghost-like – and wanted him to leave her alone. She died on that night. He hasn't seen her mother though she relentlessly tried to arrange for a meeting. He wanted none of that past. The detachment he has established should not be mended. What would he tell her anyways? That he trifled with her naïve daughter's heart and put her on the path to perdition by leaving her in a cowardly manner? No. And how would a meeting of the sort make Arden feel? Arden. Was she even real? Would she be there? Would she be welcoming? Would she still want him? He wished to turn and go back, but the wind morphed into a violent gale as the sun eagerly set behind the thick shield of clouds.

He looked up and saw the house stare down at him, scorning him. What have brought you back? It asked in disdain. The farm was in ruins. Whoever was keeping the fire burning inside has let all the trees wither and the crops die. He reached the front door and knocked then stepped back, heart in hand. The door gave a loud squeak and his face lit up. Arden emerged from the dark, smiling. Who could possibly think in the presence of her smile?