postboys, giving instructions, and not far from the inn they took a side road. She read the signpost. Mayfield, Barkholme, and Hawk in the Vale.
"Hawk in the Vale?" she guessed.
"That's the nearest village, yes. It's pronounced Hawk’nvale."
"Like your friend's name."
"Almost. The family's been there about as long as the village.” He was looking out of the window, but it was no longer a means to escape conversation. She knew he was seeking signs of home. They reached the top of a rise, and he pointed to the left across rolling hills to a white house on a hillside. "That's Steynings.” She relaxed. Perhaps he'd just needed to come here to embrace his home and his purpose.]]>
Perhaps their talk along the way had helped as well, and their night of passion. Whatever had worked the miracle she sensed that he was finally, truly, coming home.
Her face suddenly ached with unshed tears, but she made herself be happy. Soon her task would be over, and she could go on with her life with an easy conscience.
"How long until we get there?" she asked.
"An hour, likely. It's not far, but we're off the good roads."
"It's a handsome house."
The house had disappeared behind trees now, and he turned to her. "Built new by my Dutch ancestor who came across with William of Orange and married into the English. Then fancied up in the Palladian style by my grandfather." He flashed her a slight smile. "Around here, we're the nouveau riche."
"The Hawkinville name was in the Domesday Book, I assume."
"Lord yes."
"And Lord Wyvern?"
"That title's only a couple of hundred years old, and it belongs to Devon, not Sussex. But the Somerfords have been here for five hundred years or so. Typical English blue blood. Saxon, Norman, Dane, and a bit of everything else that's come by in the last thousand years. Like the Dunpott-Ffyfes."
"True."
They share a smile that might be the most honest one ever.
Eventually the coach slowed to turn into a village. "Hawk'nvale," he said with soft satisfaction.
It lay in a gentle valley, with a broken row of old cottages set along the river. Each had a narrow garden running down to the water. That style marked a truly ancient settlement dating back to the times when rivers were more important than roads.
The large church set on a rise across the village green had a square Anglo-Saxon tower that marked it as at least eight hundred years old. To either side, like curved arms, lay newer buildings, so that the whole village embraced the green.
Surely it stood ready to embrace a returning son.
They drew up on the modern side of the village, in front of the stuccoed Peregrine Inn and climbed down.
"This is New Hawk," Van said, looking around. "Down by the river is Old Hawk."
"Where does Major Hawkinville live?"
"Wherever he puts his hat. But his father's house is in Old Hawk, of course. The walled place with the tower inside."
It was so much part of the older section of the village that her eye had ignored it. Now she saw a walled conglomeration of buildings surely going back in parts to the days of the ancient church. "Ancient, but not handsome," she remembered.
"Did it actually hold against the Normans?" she asked in fascination.
"The wall's not that old, but the tower probably saw William the Conqueror go past.
It's a fascinating old place, but getting impossible to live in comfortably." A tall, cheerful man strode out of the main doors to greet them. He seemed glowingly happy to see Van.
Van, smiling, introduced him as Smithers, the innkeeper.
The healing was happening, she was sure.
Mr. Smithers regaled her with stories of the Young Georges' impish youth as he led her to her room. It proved to be as up to date as her own at home. A maid brought water and she freshened herself. When she went down, she was directed to a private parlor where Van had arranged a meal.
She was glad of it, but would have been as happy to go directly to his home. To complete this healing journey. He wasn't in the room yet,
"Hawk in the Vale?" she guessed.
"That's the nearest village, yes. It's pronounced Hawk’nvale."
"Like your friend's name."
"Almost. The family's been there about as long as the village.” He was looking out of the window, but it was no longer a means to escape conversation. She knew he was seeking signs of home. They reached the top of a rise, and he pointed to the left across rolling hills to a white house on a hillside. "That's Steynings.” She relaxed. Perhaps he'd just needed to come here to embrace his home and his purpose.]]>
Perhaps their talk along the way had helped as well, and their night of passion. Whatever had worked the miracle she sensed that he was finally, truly, coming home.
Her face suddenly ached with unshed tears, but she made herself be happy. Soon her task would be over, and she could go on with her life with an easy conscience.
"How long until we get there?" she asked.
"An hour, likely. It's not far, but we're off the good roads."
"It's a handsome house."
The house had disappeared behind trees now, and he turned to her. "Built new by my Dutch ancestor who came across with William of Orange and married into the English. Then fancied up in the Palladian style by my grandfather." He flashed her a slight smile. "Around here, we're the nouveau riche."
"The Hawkinville name was in the Domesday Book, I assume."
"Lord yes."
"And Lord Wyvern?"
"That title's only a couple of hundred years old, and it belongs to Devon, not Sussex. But the Somerfords have been here for five hundred years or so. Typical English blue blood. Saxon, Norman, Dane, and a bit of everything else that's come by in the last thousand years. Like the Dunpott-Ffyfes."
"True."
They share a smile that might be the most honest one ever.
Eventually the coach slowed to turn into a village. "Hawk'nvale," he said with soft satisfaction.
It lay in a gentle valley, with a broken row of old cottages set along the river. Each had a narrow garden running down to the water. That style marked a truly ancient settlement dating back to the times when rivers were more important than roads.
The large church set on a rise across the village green had a square Anglo-Saxon tower that marked it as at least eight hundred years old. To either side, like curved arms, lay newer buildings, so that the whole village embraced the green.
Surely it stood ready to embrace a returning son.
They drew up on the modern side of the village, in front of the stuccoed Peregrine Inn and climbed down.
"This is New Hawk," Van said, looking around. "Down by the river is Old Hawk."
"Where does Major Hawkinville live?"
"Wherever he puts his hat. But his father's house is in Old Hawk, of course. The walled place with the tower inside."
It was so much part of the older section of the village that her eye had ignored it. Now she saw a walled conglomeration of buildings surely going back in parts to the days of the ancient church. "Ancient, but not handsome," she remembered.
"Did it actually hold against the Normans?" she asked in fascination.
"The wall's not that old, but the tower probably saw William the Conqueror go past.
It's a fascinating old place, but getting impossible to live in comfortably." A tall, cheerful man strode out of the main doors to greet them. He seemed glowingly happy to see Van.
Van, smiling, introduced him as Smithers, the innkeeper.
The healing was happening, she was sure.
Mr. Smithers regaled her with stories of the Young Georges' impish youth as he led her to her room. It proved to be as up to date as her own at home. A maid brought water and she freshened herself. When she went down, she was directed to a private parlor where Van had arranged a meal.
She was glad of it, but would have been as happy to go directly to his home. To complete this healing journey. He wasn't in the room yet,
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