He hadn’t traveled to St. Clair for some months, and his visit now was prompted not by the cares of the estate but by motives he himself could not define to his satisfaction. He thought to break free of the admittedly comfortable restraints that were binding him to a round of activities that held little pleasure for him, for there was a growing emptiness that nagged at him whenever he slowed his frantic pace.
Perhaps, he reflected, as he flicked the thong of his whip over the head of his leader, he would be able to speak to Hugh. Unlike Percy, Hugh Drakemore, Lord Launston, was an older, settled man who seemed to know his way. In their long years of friendship, Julien had never known Hugh to react with anything but an amiable equanimity to the vagaries of his fellow man. But then, what would he say to Hugh? Certainly he could not complain that he was tired of his wealth and title, for he most assuredly was not. No, it was something else, something elusive, just out of his reach.
He had found himself looking searchingly at Percy the night before, noting the small yet obvious signs of dissipation about his eyes, the once-athletic body that was now running to fat. Percy had quizzed him often about being a fixture at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, a pursuit, however, that kept Julien’s body hard and muscular. Percy seemed to devote his energies, indeed his life, to gaming, women, and drink. Now it occurred to Julien that he was being a hypocrite, criticizing his friends. How was he different from the pleasure-seeking ton, flitting about brightly in the evenings, hurling themselves into the gaiety? Surely his head ached just as abominably as his friends’ heads did the mornings after evenings spent in consuming quantities of brandy.
Beyond making this silent observation, Julien found that this train of thought was inordinately frustrating and inconclusive. Perhaps, he thought, this visit to St. Clair was just what he needed. But his lips twisted ironically at this wishful conclusion. He was still seeing St. Clair as the place of happiness and innocent adventure of his boyhood, with dragons to slay and fair maidens to rescue, though in all truth, there hadn’t been any maidens, fair or otherwise, to rescue.
He urged his horses to a faster pace. Fine-blood cattle, they jumped forward, a well-trained extension of his arm. They forced him to concentrate on his driving, for the road was narrow, even dangerously so.
The slightly built Bladen hung on tightly, shaking his head. His master always drove to an inch, but he had never seen him increase his horses’ pace on such a winding, narrow road. He thought fleetingly that his master was driving as if demons were after him. He paused, alarmed by this thought, and swung his head around quickly to search the road behind them. Seeing nothing but clouds of dust raised by the curricle, he shrugged his shoulders and wondered whether demons were invisible. He turned his attention on the road ahead, thankful now more than ever that his master was an excellent whip.
Late in the afternoon, three days after leaving London, Julien drove his curricle through the village of Dapplemoor, which lay but a few miles to the west of St. Clair. The village seemed practically empty save for a few ducks that swam lazily in a small pond at the center of the green.
“Everybody be home having their dinner, milord,” Bladen said, surveying the quiet village.
“And you’ll be having your own dinner soon enough, Bladen,” the earl said over his shoulder. “We’ll be at St. Clair in but a short time now.”
“Aye,” Bladen agreed, reflecting with some pleasure on the meal that would be ready for him. He tightened his grip once again as his master passed out of the village and spurred his horses forward.
Julien felt a quickening within as they entered St. Clair park. Giant oak trees lined the drive, forming a lush green ceiling of leaves. Only slight beams of sunlight penetrated the dense covering. He mused that these giant oaks would remain as they were long after the St. Clairs were dead and forgotten.
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