Fate, The Relentless Hunter.

An unexpected but welcome surprise.

Richard put the house in a pandemonium when he clattered into the stable yard some moments later, setting the dogs off, and had seen the stable lad roused. He gave the bleary-eyed lad his first instructions about his horse; feeling more relieved that the boy was not entirely stupid, and was not about to do anything foolish that might cost him his life or a broken limb. He then entered the now well-lit house to find his mother and sister as well as half of the house had been disturbed by his unexpected arrival. They had both been in bed, but soon revived and greeted him as though they had not seen him for years, which is what it had been. They had been confused by the noise at first. They had feared the worst, at such an unexpected commotion with a rider coming noisily into the yard, though they soon realized that news of the kind they had dreaded for so long was not delivered from the stable yard, or at night, but at the front door.

He should have known what his reception would be like. He was greeted with considerably more emotion than he had been prepared for, with his mother throwing herself upon him, hugging him close and shedding tears over his sudden arrival. He did not remember her ever being so happy to see him, but then, as most young men do, he had tended to discourage any display of feminine affection for him. It was welcome now, and not discouraged. It was even returned. They had not liked to be surprised in that way and took him to task.

“Why didn’t you let us know you would be coming? You have taken ten years off my life, Richard. I shall blame you if my hair is white tomorrow.” She was annoyed with him for just a moment. “You should have warned us. This is far too sudden.” She sat down suddenly; her legs no longer willing to support her, as she tried to hold back her tears, though without success.

He knelt before her, put his hand on her shoulder and smiled at her as he pulled her closer to him. “I couldn’t, Mama. I did not know myself until two days ago, and only ten minutes before I left. Any message I did not bring myself would have been some days after me.”

His older sister had stayed back, and had been content to take his other hand, though he noticed that she was crying too. After some moments of endeavoring to control her emotions his mother gave up the attempt, and held him at arm’s length as she looked at him up and down as the tears rolled down her face. He had changed in ways that she had not been prepared for. He was not the boy that had gone away, but had returned a man. Not only that; he had become a man she was not sure she knew, and was afraid of the ways in which he had changed, or that the war had changed about him.

“Clothes.” His mother suddenly recollected herself, and as a mother, saw immediately what was needed, and what was in urgent need of being done. “We’d better get you out of those…” she held off from saying what she thought of their visible condition, and various questionable aromas from the fabric that she had noticed when he had held her close. They had sat for too long unwashed, and moldering in a trunk in a ship’s cabin, or in the damp of a tent, or worse, “… and get them washed.” He did not argue with her.

When other clothing was brought to him, he laid sword and pistols on the nearby table to be close at hand—old habits to ensure survival, died hard—and he gave no thought to getting out of his clothes in another room, where servant girls might be scurrying about to see to food for him and preparing a warming pan, and bedding. He calmly stripped off in the presence of both his sister and mother, who would not have left him easily in any case after being separated from him for so long. He continued talking as he did so. They submerged their own surprise at what he now seemed to have no shyness in doing. This was not the shy, protesting boy they remembered. They watched as he washed himself down with warm water and a cloth, before thinking of getting dressed in other clothing brought for him. There had been no time for modesty, or bothering about such things where he had been, never mind who might be watching, and he had not fallen back into that earlier, shy behavior.

From force of habit, and taken by surprise at his lack of modesty in front of them, they had both turned away. They soon recovered, and took fresh note of him once more; at the evidence of war on his strangely muscular body. They said nothing, but they were surprised at his lack of shyness or timidity with them, as they quickly lost their own, at seeing the shocking evidence of violence upon him. This was certainly not the pale athletic boy that had gone away years earlier. Now he was a sunburned, scarred, sturdy, even rugged and self-assured man. He had filled out and appeared to have thrived on war, considering the muscle and the flesh that he had put on. He had not been so shy then either, in too many ways, but now there was none at all. They held their concerns in check and did not ask those questions that burned the air between them about what they could see that must have been life threatening wounds at one time—so many of them—yet he still had all of his limbs and fingers and both eyes, though his eyes were harder and sharper, and missed nothing. They would discuss it in bewildered wonderment and horror, mother to daughter, later, when he was not there to see them bothering about such inconsequential things.

Later, dressed more comfortably and with his uniform consigned to the wash, he let his mother and sister lead him off to the kitchen where they could sit and talk in warmth. He ate with an eagerness that suggested he might not have eaten at all for several hours. They were not to know that he had barely kept enough food down to keep a mouse alive over the last twelve hours on board that ship, and wondering if his last minutes had come; to die at sea instead of in battle. Half of the crew had been seasick too.

He hungrily attacked a hastily put-together dinner consisting of the remains of a stew, bread, cheese, and two tankards of Porter. He was supervised with astonishment, at how hungry he seemed to be, as he then went at a plate of cold cuts, followed by a wine of a quality he had not been exposed to, even where he was now located; in some of the best wine growing country. After that, they had sat and talked for hours, filling in those gaps that they had not seen addressed in any detail in his numerous letters. They all of them were careful to avoid any discussion, or direct reference to conditions on the continent that might have disturbed either of the ladies, and would put his thoughts back into conditions he had just left. They did not need to learn of those experiences that still gave him nightmares, and would have done no better for them. The less they knew of what he had come from, the better for their rest, though they could see more than he might know on his person, and in his face. He looked gaunt, despite the flesh on him, and there was a strange look that occasionally seemed to shine from his sometimes-haunted eyes that spoke of memories still too close. There were other changes about him too that were obvious to them in his restless glances around himself with each slight noise. It was almost as though he were expecting trouble from any direction and at any time, as he continually, and reassuringly but unconsciously, touched the hilt of his sword by him on the table. It was also evident in his wildly unruly hair and darting eyes.

His mother had accepted his explanation that he had not known he would be sent to England as he had been, so could not let her know that he would be home, albeit for just a few hours. When he had settled down more, and they had recovered from the surprise he had given them, he had a pleasant, if not an entirely relaxed meeting with his mother and sister, while most of the rest of the house continued with its rest. He was mostly unaware of the tension they had lived with constantly for the past few years. He told them too little, but they knew enough not to ask. He left his unfinished letters with them to read later.

He had been saddled with this present task at short notice and had been given a mere ten minutes of preparation before he had to take a horse and head for the coast, bearing news of the outcome of the last battle, and others that seemed to be ahead of them. It had been too rough on board ship to continue his letters in the dim cabin, and after that, he had needed as much rest as he could get, between energy-draining bouts of seasickness.

He learned that his father was not home, but was still in the Mediterranean on board his ship, though he might be returning sometime in the next few weeks.

His mother had taken one look at the state of his uniform even as he had walked through the door, and had waited for an opportune moment to see him change. She had accepted no argument from him that it was not necessary to go to any special effort for him, as he would soon be gone. She had overruled him firmly, as only a mother can. It was necessary. She would not see a son of hers sit down when he was so obviously in need of his clothes being cleaned, though she would rather have seen them burned.

‘What would anyone think who chanced to see you? And you a Shawcross.’

She had been offended, and had sent everything off into the wash to be seen to that very night, so that it would be ready for him before mid-morning, when he would have to depart. His boots would be seen to in the morning, but his uniform had to be seen to now.

“Mrs. Marsden will not be pleased with me over this, Mama, disturbing her rest in this way and being rooted out of her bed to do a wash.”

“You are wrong, Richard. She was just as pleased to learn you were safe home, as we were, and happy to see you safely here after all of the disturbing news from the continent, and what we had read and heard of you. You shall thank her before you retire, and don’t you dare forget.” He wouldn’t. He smiled at her being so insistent. She yearned to reach out and touch him about the face and head, but was reluctant to possibly cause him pain or to see him pull back. She did not like what she saw, and was satisfied just to hold him by the arm. “We will make it up to her.” She had held onto his hand, loath to let it go, lest he evaporate as quickly as he had appeared. She could see much about him that she would have like to have asked about, but there were many things she could not say. He had changed. He was not the innocent boy that she had seen leave home under a cloud.

He had been far from innocent even then, but her motherly feelings had not accepted or acknowledged what she had begun to dread hearing of his behavior. He was now a man. Five years had intervened between then, when he had first gone, and now; and it had been two years since they had last seen him. The little that they had learned had been gleaned from his descriptive letters to her, and those to his sister, but those had said little enough about anything they needed to know. With the insight of a mother, she had been able to read more than he told them, and she was comfortable with none of it. Too many young men died in those battles before they ever learned anything of life. The names of the battles changed, but the devastating news was always the same; violence, setbacks, victories, but always involving deaths, deaths and more deaths. They had waited daily, for that rider coming up the street with news that no one wanted to hear. It had not come, and their fear of that dreaded news gradually diminished as they got used to living with the aching uncertainty, and as the news began to improve. Though it nagged at them less with time, it never disappeared entirely. It was not something a mother ever got used to.

Mostly, they had learned of him indirectly, and what was happening around him from the news that was reported in the newspapers, a week or more too late and not always to be trusted. There were other newssheets that were more reliable, and that were sent to them from one of his friends in London; from Whitehall. They had learned of his promotions that way too, but long delayed, and not for almost six months after he had become a colonel. He would never have mentioned it in any of his letters, which carefully avoided everything to do with war. He had grown up, and grown away from his family at the same time as children do, though not from his sister. They had greeted each other with the same gentle affection for each other that they had always shown, so she could not fault any change there, for there was none that she could see. Constance was several years older than her brother, but they had seemed like twins from an early age and always looked out for, and protected each other. Alfred, the elder brother, did not figure in anyone’s thoughts at that moment, and he was away from home anyway, and safe.

His mother had wanted to reach out, and bathe the wounds that she could see, and others that she knew he had, for she had fleetingly seen them when he had changed. They were now hidden from her eyes but not from her memory. He was more than a grown man now, and he might object if she tried, as she wanted to do, to cosset and pamper him as she had, even five years ago after he had been laid low by a fever that had almost taken him off. Those times were now behind her. He would not be inclined to let either her or his sister bathe him now, as he had as a child, but he would need to have a proper bath before he retired, to get some of the more persistent evidence of war and careless living off his body. There was hot water enough, but also time later on to bathe. He could catch up on his rest when he rejoined his ship; that is, if the rough weather might let him.

His mother had retired eventually with her troubled thoughts; relieved beyond her own understanding to have seen him as she had, yet moved by his fearsome appearance. She had cried herself to sleep, knowing one night where she need not worry about him, and felt the emotions of the previous few years slip from her shoulders, and out of her system, though temporarily, knowing that he was safe, even if for just the one night.