In The Manner Of Cowper

Nathaniel Rowley fought to quell the emotion rising in his throat. Every fibre of his being longed to turn his gelding around and leave this godforsaken place. He resisted. He was no longer the trembling child he had once been. He took a slow, steadying breath, pushing back the familiar invasion of memory and wiggling his toes in his boots. Scarlett had taught him that trick - said it settled the nerves and no one would notice. The first time he tried it, it had worked. Now every time he did it, he thought of her - her kind smile, her too-revealing dress, the blood-red paint on her lips. He determined to visit her again as soon as duty allowed.

With squared shoulders and tightened jaw, he reined his mount to a stop before the small assembly of servants. Thankfully, his grandfather had kept the estate running lean – only half a dozen stood waiting. A pang of guilt sluiced through him as he pictured Lord Thomas Rowley’s slow descent into decrepitude and solitude. He wiggled his toes again and dismounted. A young footman rushed forward and took his reins with a bow that felt far too formal. A man in a plain but well-tailored suit stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Lord Rowley. An honour. Your grandfather was a man I held in high regard. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Nate managed a curt nod.

“I’m Kingsley. Arnold Kingsley. Ravenward’s estate manager. I expect you’ll want a full accounting of the business as soon as feasible.” He tapped the leather-bound folder he had tucked under his arm.

Nate was about to respond, when a tall woman stepped forward.

“Lord Rowley, I’m Mrs. Thorne, the housekeeper.” Her tone was direct but not unkind – the type that invited no nonsense yet made room for grace. “I imagine the journey from Scotland has been long. You may wish for tea and a moment to settle before business.”

Mr Kingsley coughed behind his fist, chagrin twisting his features.

“Of course, my Lord. Forgive me. I’ll return later in the week once you’ve had a chance to rest and lay your grandfather to rest. There’s nothing here that cannot wait.”

Nate nodded, relief trickling down his spine at the reprieve. He fell into step beside Mrs. Thorne as she introduced the remaining staff. He nodded politely to each and was thankful when she dismissed them all, indicating for him to follow her inside. He was pleased he hadn’t frozen at the door as he had years ago. He was stronger now. He would cope with this. There was no one else left. Just him. Only him.

When she showed him to his father’s suite, he hesitated. He couldn’t walk in. There’d be no way to stop the smiling face of his mother or the adoring eyes of his father from overtaking him. He could almost hear his little sister’s unrestrained laughter echoing down the hall – likely on her way to fling herself onto their parents’ bed to share some wild adventure.

Mrs. Thorne stopped talking and turned, watching him with quiet concern. Heat rose to his face, his chest rising too rapidly, too shallow. He needed to get control, to stop this before it swallowed him whole. She seemed to sense it. Without a word, she stepped away and gently closed the suite door behind her.

He forced his thoughts into order. He needed a reason for this behaviour. He was the Lord of Ravensward now; the suite was his by right. But he couldn’t even cross the threshold. He thought he was stronger. He should be stronger by now. It had been nearly twenty years since they’d died - since they’d left him behind. He drew a sharp breath through his nose and dug his fingernails into his palms.

But the inevitable questions never came. Mrs. Thorne lingered a moment longer, then turned down the hall – away from the family rooms. She led him into a corridor with three guest chambers, opened a door, and ushered him inside. The furniture was draped in white sheets, dust lining the solid wooden frame of the large window. The wide green stretch of land made him feel like he could breathe again. Like maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to be here.

“It won’t take long to get the room made up for you, my Lord,” Mrs. Thorne said, pulling the nearest sheet free and balling it against herself. “I’ll give your Lordship a few moments to settle in. Tea will be served in the drawing room when you’re ready. The girls will have this space cleaned within the hour. I’ll let Percy know where you’d like your things put.”

He half turned to her and nodded his thanks, a lump forming in his throat. Gratitude swelled – unexpected and enormous. She didn’t seem to need him to speak. She simply left.

He let his head drop forward, shoulders curling under the weight of it all. That was the only concession he would allow. He had to find a way through. He’d long ago learned that silence was his closest friend. People mistook it for thoughtfulness, even wisdom, never realising he was simply trapped inside himself. Let them believe what they liked. It didn’t matter. He was alone. Had been since he was ten. He no longer hoped that would change.

He made it through breakfast and the funeral without a word. Mrs. Thorne had already seen to all the arrangements but had kindly asked if there was anything he’d like included. He’d shaken his head and kept eating his eggs. She nodded and excused herself. He wondered if she thought him ill-mannered, but she gave no sign of offence.

The sun had long since set. He sat in the squashy armchair he’d dragged before the large window in his room; the details lost to the dusk. He turned to an old comfort – his much-loved Cowper volume, The Task. The leather edges were softened with age, warm in his hands. He read for hours, the prose so familiar it no longer needed light. Eventually, hunger pushed him from the quiet of his sanctuary.

He knew the way well, having snuck in for treats as a boy. He’d once taught Little Beatrice the art of conning Mrs. Haversham, the old cook, out of sugary goodies. It was a good memory. He was grateful it wasn’t shadowed this time.

But the kitchen wasn’t empty. At the end of the long preparation table sat Mrs. Thorne, a book open before her, beeswax candle casting light across her lined features.

“Another Cowper fan, I see.”

Mrs. Thorne jumped, nearly tossing her book. Nate raised a placating hand as she clutched her chest.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Your Lordship,” she gasped, rising and curtseying. “Is everything all right? Do you need something?”

He shook his head. “Truly, I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“If there’s nothing you need from me, I’ll just-”

“No, please.” He gestured to the book. “I never thought I’d find anyone else who reads Cowper by candlelight… let alone in a kitchen.”

She hesitated, then slowly sat. Her eyes dropped to the worn book in his hands. She offered a small, sad smile.

“I suppose nobody reads him at night without reason.”

Simple words - but they held such quiet understanding that Nate had to pause. Her gaze lingered on him. He managed a nod and set his book on the table. She rose and quietly prepared a modest tea tray.

When she made to leave, he surprised himself.

“Stay, please, Mrs Thorne.”

The tall clock in the hallway ticked softly. The fire whispered in the grate. Neither of them moved. For the first time since returning, Nate didn’t feel like a guest in his own life.

“Which of his poems do you like the best?”

She took a sip from the cup he’d handed her.

“The Castaway,” she said quietly.

He smiled – truly smiled – for the first time since he’d come home. “You have excellent taste, Mrs. Thorne. Please, call me Nate. Or Rowley, if you must. I never liked being called His Lordship.”

Mrs. Thorne gave a nod of quiet acceptance and said nothing more.