Better Than Byron

Atonement and Mutual Misunderstanding

XIX

The heart will break, but broken live on.

-Lord Byron

Summer was coming to an end, and the trees were already beginning to wear their autumn colours. The wind was gaining speed and chill, but the weather was mild for mid September, and refreshing to those who, like Edgar Thurlow, had been travelling two days in a stuffy coach with very little legroom to speak of. That is why, upon reaching his destination, he alighted from the coach with a slightly unbalanced spring, and then stretched his legs with verve.

"Take my trunks inside, will you, coachman?" he ordered, striding briskly to the front door and swinging it open – knowing it never to be locked during the day. He stepped in slowly and cautiously, as if anticipating an attack, but on finding the house perfectly still, he eased up his tense muscles and took a bolder step forward, followed by the coachman who was hauling his trunks in with some difficulty. Edgar rang the nearest bell, and presently the butler appeared. The faithful old servant stared dumbly at his young master, and then said with a hesitant smile, "Welcome home, Master Deighton."

"Thank you, James," he grinned cordially, meeting his small, wrinkled eyes with ease. "I am glad you do not think me a stranger to this household. Is... mother at home?"

"She and Master Dalton have gone out on their customary morning walk, sir, but they shall be back anon."

"I see," he murmured, casting a curious eye around the foyer to see whether any changes had been made. Everything was as it had always been. "In that case, you may tell them, as soon as they return, that I am awaiting their arrival in the drawing-room."

*

As soon as Mrs. Frances Augusta Dalton was informed of her son's arrival, her heart warmed with relief, and she flew frantically to the drawing-room only to find – not her beloved boy, but Mr. Thurlow. The tall, pale gentleman rose from his armchair, put out his cigar in the ashtray, and then advanced to meet her with outstretched arms.

"Mother, I have come back to you," he said softly, taking on her son's softly sorrowful, curiously penetrating expression and cloaking her in his arms, which were no longer spindly. Within that moment, she admitted to herself that she had always known who he really was, but had been too comfortable with the distance of her difficult past to speak out and reclaim him.

"Is it really you, Edgar?" she asked hesitantly.

"It is, mother. I am come home to you. I hope you have not forgotten me?"

"Of course not, Edgar!" she smiled, burying her face in his chest and drying her tears on his coat collar. "I thought of you often. But why did you change your name, my boy? Were you ashamed of your parentage?"

"No – but I have been to the vicarage, and forgiven my father. I am no longer Edgar Thurlow. I am reclaiming Sir Edgar Deighton."

"Thank you, Edgar," she sighed, smoothing her agitation into bliss. "I always knew you were a good boy."

"Yes, and yet I've still someone to convince of that," he frowned, unknowingly pulling away from Mrs. Dalton and looking tragically out of the window. Mrs. Dalton touched his cheek and asked confidingly, "Are you in love with Margaret Vickers, Edgar?" He bit his lip, and then replied hoarsely, "I admit it."