They were in the sitting room now, and Beatrice left his side to order tea and some type of refreshments.
“Did the Indians draw those birds around your eye?” the boy asked.
“Daniel.” Hartley spoke for the first time, his voice even. He said nothing more, but the boy ducked his head.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Reynaud nodded and took a seat. “Yes, the Indians tattooed my face.”
Beatrice returned at that moment and met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with sympathy, and the sight warmed his chest. She sat down next to him and tucked her hand under his.
She cleared her throat. “I’m Beatrice Corning.”
He squeezed her hand in gratitude.
Emeline sat a little straighter, rather like a birding dog at the sight of a grouse. “Tante Cristelle said you were engaged to be married to my brother.”
Beatrice glanced at him and then said brightly, “Yes. We hope to have a small wedding soon. Miss Molyneux didn’t tell us you were coming. Were you expected?”
“Evidently not.” Emeline pursed her lips. “I wrote, of course, to say that we’d be coming, but the letter must’ve gone astray. Samuel has business to attend to in England, and I’d hoped to visit with Tante. As it was, we quite surprised her with our arrival in London, and then she startled us with her news that Reynaud was alive.”
“Wonderful news.” Beatrice smiled.
“Yes.” Emeline cast a quick, curious glance between him and Beatrice. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you related to the present Earl of Blanchard?”
“The usurper,” Reynaud growled.
“I’m his niece,” Beatrice said.
“And my soon-to-be wife,” he stated.
“Hmm. About that,” Emeline murmured. “Tante said you’d only been home for less than a month.”
Beatrice stirred beside him. “I’m afraid Reynaud swept me off my feet.”
Emeline was frowning now, which irritated Reynaud. Seven years apart and his baby sister thought she could tell him how to live his life? He opened his mouth but felt a sharp elbow in his side. Surprised, he glanced down at Beatrice, who was looking quite sternly at him.
As if by some feminine cue, the talk turned to lighter matters then. Hartley explained his business dealings in Boston and London, and Emeline told the story of how they’d met and what had happened since Reynaud’s absence, her news little different than that he’d heard from Tante Cristelle, but it was wonderful to hear her voice. Reynaud let the talk flow about him, content to simply sit and listen to his sister and Beatrice. This was his family now.
Finally, Emeline declared herself weary, and Hartley leaped to help her up from her seat.
As the ladies made their farewells, Hartley turned to Reynaud and said quietly, “I’m glad you made it home.”
Reynaud nodded. He was home now, wasn’t he? “I hear you ran through the woods to bring back the rescue party for those who were captured.”
Hartley shrugged. “It was all I could do. Had I known they’d taken you alive, I would’ve searched until I’d found you.”
It was an easy vow to make, seven years after the fact, but Hartley’s face was grave, his eyes serious and intent, and Reynaud knew the other man meant it.
“You didn’t know,” he said, and held out his hand.
Hartley grasped his hand and shook it firmly. “Welcome home.”
And Reynaud could only nod again and look away, lest he lose his composure entirely.
Reynaud escorted Emeline and her family to the front door, then returned to the sitting room to find Beatrice pouring herself another cup of tea. He paced to the mantel, paused to glance at a small shepherdess—had it been his mother’s?—then went to the windows. All the while, he felt Beatrice’s gaze on him.
She set her cup down on the table beside her and eyed him. “Are you feeling well?”