“There might be some relevance to your own life,” Stanton said, as immune to hostility as rudeness.
“Are you implying that I can't hold my drink?”
“Since you are your father's son, perhaps not.” Stanton regarded him gravely. “You would know that better than I.”
Coldly furious, Reggie yearned to curse Stanton for a meddlesome old fool and stomp out. Something stopped him. For the third time in a matter of weeks, someone was talking to him about his drinking, and all three people were in the very small handful who had demonstrated a genuine concern for his welfare.
As the fatigue and despair of the night flooded over him, he set his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Without looking up, he muttered, “Maybe I do drink too much, but I haven't a wife or family. Who am I harming?”
“Yourself,” Stanton said softly.
The silence stretched. Reggie thought of the depression that had been dogging him, and for the first time wondered if it might be a result of drink. And while he did not have a wife or child to lose, there was Strickland. He remembered the last night in London, when he had gone gambling and won a thousand pounds in some unknown way. He could as easily have lost.
If he had been on a losing streak, might he have been fool enough to put up Strickland as a stake? Chillingly he knew that was possible. Voice muffled by his hands, he said gruffly, “You're right. I should drink less.”
“Possibly that would work,” was the noncommittal reply.
Lowering his hands, Reggie looked up with narrowed eyes. “Would you care to elaborate on that statement?”
“Some men can reduce their drinking, and that solves their problem.” Stanton grimaced. “I tried that. It didn't work. As soon as I swallowed that first mouthful of booze, I would forgetâor rather, no longer careâabout my good resolutions. Then I would drink until I was unconscious. For me the only answer was to stop altogether. There was no middle ground.”
“I have a strong will.”
“I don't doubt it.” Stanton's shrewd old eyes studied him. “But strength of will might not be enough in this case. It wasn't for me.”
“How did you stop if will wasn't enough?” Reggie challenged.
Stanton's mouth quirked up. “You're going to laugh at this, but the only thing that helped was prayer.”
Ignoring his godson's expression of distaste, he continued, “This is something I've told no one else, but for me the turning point came seven months after Elizabeth left. First I tried to moderate my drinking. That didn't work. Then I tried stopping altogether. That would last a few days or weeks. Then, when I was sure my problem was under control, I would have just one drink. Next thing I knew, it would be the morning after and I had the devil's own hangover and no memory of the night before.”
So those terrifying memory losses were not exclusive to Reggie. “What happened then?”
“I woke up in the drawing room one morning, lying in my own vomit, and knew that I couldn't stop drinking. I had tried my damnedest, and I simply could not do it. I was going to lose my wife and children forever, and without them, there wasn't much point in going on.” Lines showed around Stanton's mouth, and Reggie realized that this was no easier for him to say than for Reggie to listen to.
“So lying there, too sick and miserable to stand, I prayed.” The older man grimaced. “Nothing formal, mind you. Just a desperate lot of drivel asking anyone who might be out there to help me, because I couldn't help myself.”
Eyes distant, he absently crumbled a roll, pulling it into shreds with his thin, parchment-colored fingers. “This is hard to describe. I don't know how long I lay there, mentally babbling, but suddenly, a ... a sense of peace came over me. There really aren't any words for it.” He started to elaborate, then changed his mind. “After that, things were different. I didn't have the same need to drink. Oh, I won't say I wasn't tempted sometimes, but it was possible to say no.”
He leaned back in his chair, composed again. “Within a few months, I felt better than I had in years. I didn't miss the drink at all. Then Elizabeth came home. It took time for her and the children to really believe I'd changed, but eventually it all worked out. You've seen the results.”
Yes, he'd seen the results. Reggie stood and walked to the window, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his buckskin breeches, his shoulders taut. Without looking at his godfather, he said stiffly, “I'm not sure any of that is relevant to me, but I appreciate your concern. I don't suppose it was easy to say.”
“No, it wasn't,” was the calm reply, “but it needed saying. Maybe, in time, it will even seem relevant.”
Reggie turned to his host and took his leave. As he rode back to Strickland, he thought long and hard about what his godfather had said, and decided there was some good sense there. Reggie's drinking hadn't gotten out of hand until the last couple of years. Waiting for his uncle's estate to be settled had been the devil of a strain. During that period he had drunk and gambled and gotten himself into the worst financial straits of his life.
After his cousin Richard appeared to claim the estate, Reggie had deliberately thrown himself into every manner of what-the-hell-does-it-matter folly. Ironically, his gambling had prospered and his finances were repaired, but he'd acted like a damned fool, no denying it.
Had it not been for the uncertainty and frustration over Wargrave, his drinking would never have become an issue. The solution was clear. All he need do was stop drinking for a while, both to prove that he could, and to break the habit of overindulgence. Then he could return to his normal consumption. Stanton might not have had the strength of will to control his tippling, but Reggie had.
He thought of Stanton's talk of prayer tolerantly. No doubt when a man was of an age to see his end approaching, it was natural to take refuge in religious superstitions. Reggie had no need of such.
By the time he reached Strickland, he was feeling in charity with the world. His state of mind was immediately tested when he led his horse into the stable and encountered Lady Alys, about to start her daily rounds. Wearing a new bronze-colored riding habit, she was very tall, slim, and regal.
Allie stiffened when she saw him, then inclined her head politely. “Good morning. I was about to ride over to one of the tenant farms, but I can postpone that if you wish to discuss anything now.”
He shook his head and began unsaddling the tired chestnut. “No, carry on with what you intended. I want to discuss the improvements, but that can wait until later.”
She raised her brows. “I thought we had settled that.”
Her glossy brown hair was once more in a neat coronet of braids. Remembering that beautiful hair loose around her face brought Reggie a sharp stab of regret for what he had foregone. “I've decided Rose Hall should be rebuilt this summer, which will reduce the money available for other projects. I'll want your opinion on what is most needful.”
A pulse beat visibly in her throat. “I see.”
She obviously thought he was trying to get rid of her. Well, he was, but his motives were pure. Amazingly so. Quietly he said, “I think it would be for the best.”
“You needn't feel guilty about last night,” she said with cool control. “You weren't forcing me.”
Remembering how deliciously she had responded made his voice brusque. “You don't have to remind me. I'm quite clear on what happened. It would have been better if it hadn't.”
Her face paled under its unladylike tan. “Quite right,” she said, her voice clipped. She turned and led her mare from the stables, her back as erect as a grenadier.
Reggie watched her leave with a combination of regret and irritation. Since he was being noble, he ought to at least get credit for it.
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Sobriety proved far more difficult than Reggie had expected. By the second day, thoughts of drinking were becoming an obsession. Again and again he imagined himself opening the library cabinet and pouring amber fluid into a glass. He could almost taste the exquisite tang on his tongue, feel the warmth that would glow through him after he swallowed that first mouthful.
Several times he caught himself about to act out that vision. Then, fiercely determined, he turned away. He could, and by God would, do this.
It was the haying season, so he spent the morning hours swinging a scythe with the laborers, finding respite in the mindless rhythms of farm work. When the luncheons of bread and cheese and ale appeared, he left to remove himself from temptation.
It's only ale,
his longing mind would whisper.
Not wine or spirits. Quite harmless.
So must the serpent have whispered in Eden. But Reggie had gotten drunk on beer and ale often enough to know that only the quantity required was different from drinking spirits. If he was stopping, he must stop entirely, without self-deception.
In his first afternoon of sobriety, Reggie visited a horse fair near Dorchester and bought four young horses with excellent potential as hunters. The next afternoon he began schooling them. It was a task that required patience and concentration, so it focused Reggie's mind on something other than his ever-increasing need for a drink.
Though Dorset was not first-class hunting country, there was enough variety of terrain around Strickland for training purposes. Some of the schooling was done over the countryside, and some took place in the paddock. Young William perched on the fence and watched whenever he could. The boy had the makings of a real horseman.
Reggie also took Peter out for driving lessons. While the older boy lacked his brother's all-encompassing fascination with horseflesh, he was bright and eager to learn. Teaching him to drive was another good distraction.
Yet no matter how hard he worked during the day, in the evenings Reggie was intolerably restless, too tense to read, too bad-tempered to talk. During the hours he had once spent drinking, he took refuge in walking around the estate. The sun set very late at this season, and in the cool hours of waning light he became intimately acquainted with his ancestral home. He prowled from the high, lonely downs dotted with sheep to the rich water meadows with their ripening grain, his long strides taut and impatient.
Even walking until full dark could not subdue his tension. Invariably he would end at his private cove on the lake. There he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the water, swimming furiously until utter exhaustion made sleep possible.
By the fourth day he was feeling so irascible that he canceled a driving lesson with Peter, knowing that he would have trouble being civil. Reggie considered taking dinner apart from his new housemates, but decided not to change the routine. So he ate with the others, saying little to avoid wounding feelings with his sharp-edged tongue. The young Spensers were too well brought up to comment on his silence, but they cast occasional puzzled glances in his direction.
Alys did not look at him at all.
Even Mac was wary, as if Reggie was a volcano on the verge of eruption. Only Nemesis seemed to see no difference, and, as Reggie thought with what humor he could summon, the dog was notably brainless.
Despite his slanderous thoughts, he was glad that the collie accompanied him on his expeditions and slept on the foot of his bed.
On the fifth day, he began wondering when it would become easier, for each day was worse than the one before. Grimly he cut hay, worked the horses, walked the estate, and swam. As he returned to the manor house, he wished without hope that tonight he might sleep soundly.
It was after midnight when he reached his room, his body still thrumming with need in spite of his fatigue.
Just one little whiskey, to help him sleep. Just one. Hadn't he proved that he could go without?
No, he hadn't, not when the longing for drink was so powerful that it damned near blotted every other thought from his head.
One thing Reggie had, perhaps in excess, was strength of will, though the unappreciative might call it stubbornness. Having decided to stop drinking for a time, he would not deviate from his resolution until he no longer craved alcohol. Only then would it be safe to drink again.
Intent on his inward battle, he didn't notice that he was not alone in the room until he was ready to climb into bed. Then the sight of a rounded female form under the covers made his heart leap. If Alys Weston was willing to go this far, not a man on earth could blame him for giving in to temptation. And making love to her was one thing that would surely distract him from his aching desire for alcohol.
The thought had hardly formed when he realized that it wasn't Allie. Too short, too round. Pulling down the edge of the blanket, he exposed the soft brown curls of a dozing housemaid. As he stared at the girl, trying to remember her name, her eyes opened. An expression of alarm appeared on her small, pretty face.
Caustic with disappointment, he said, “Don't you belong in the attic with the other maids?”