Brand quickly procured a random parchment, and with an easy sigh, fixed the hair strands beside his ear. The seas were turbulent sometimes, and his mind was in immaculate disarray, but the constant knockings, the interruptions and the frequent needing of his voice and validations were almost absent. Mainecroft Hall was a mighty duty.
"Come." He ushered.
Gerard entered and bowed. "My Lord."
"Have you found a steward for my employ?" He asked, without lifting his gaze from the parchment which he found, much to his chagrin to be an invitation letter.
"I have arranged for a few. They will be here in two hours."
He nodded, switching the vexing letter for the report of Two Flying Doves to his left. "And the note to the foundation house?"
"I handed it to one of the sisters there myself."
"Hmm." A pause. He signed for the complete sales of the entirety of the goods recently brought with the ship and scribbled on another parchment for the questioning of the ship's quartermaster. Then he waved for it to dry. "Have a note sent to Mr. Jefferson. I believe he would serve well to be interviewed."
"But Mr. Jefferson already works at the administrative office." Gerard noted as he went to attend to the window. Another gust of wind had troubled the parchments.
"I am aware, Gerard. I wish only to try to convince him." He folded the parchment and slipped it into an envelope. "Otherwise, he can do as he pleases." He signed off on a final cheque. For the repair of the slight damage to the mast of the ship.
"Of course, sir."
"Have a runner send these to Lawrence and Stephen at the docks." He held out a fine bunch of envelopes. "He should have Lawrence inquire of Mr. Ashcombe for the whereabouts of the linens he was asked to claim. And if he had sold it, the whereabouts of the revenue discovered."
Gerard hurried to him, taking the envelopes. "Yes, sir."
"And to have Stephen prepare The Rescuer and my crew. I intend to leave by tomorrow's eve. Prepare for my travels as well."
"Of course, sir." The man agreed with a nod and hurried away.
In the wake of his butler's departure, the overwhelming thoughts of his past demanded to return. Downing the remainder of his water, he pushed them aside, completely relinquishing himself to the work at hand, refusing to become paralysed even for a moment by his prison.
At half past one in the afternoon, with the sun blazing overhead and creating more than just the hotness it was allowed, Brand clutched a few letters he hoped to reply and abandoned the study, fleeing both the walls of the room and the demons that stayed with him after that fateful night on the ship.
The moment he stepped into the drawing room, he halted, completely caught off guard.
"Mother?! What are you doing here?" No sooner had the door flung open did the words jump out of his mouth. He rounded the room and planted himself firmly in his favourite chair. It was beside the one she sat in. "No one informed me of your presence." Underneath all words, struggle and terror mingled.
Seated regally to one side of the long sofa, Lady Wilmot, extravagantly dressed with an excess of fabric and a piece of exorbitant jewelry to complement, held a delicate cup of tea to her lips. Her outfit could put the sun to shame if the latter were already not so pronounced. She was an exquisite woman to behold, and her beauty, amongst other things, provided quite an ease in understanding why the former king had been enamoured.
Partially why Alexander became enamoured with Lady Gwen since he first saw her. Before he felt madly for her.
Lady Wilmot brought the cup down, letting the saucer lightly touch her knee, and replied smoothly. "I asked them not to. Mary met me at the door, and Gerard informed me of your immersion with work. You were quite occupied. I saw no reason to trouble you." She shrugged. Then, "All is well?"
"Quite." Brand exhaled, setting the letters down on the side table. "Only the much that is to be done before I set sail."
Of which included the hiring of another steward, seeing his fortune well managed, and ensuring his goods were properly distributed for sales, without theft, which he now suspected. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, lightly caressing his skin. He felt his unease slowly waste away.
After another graceful sip, Lady Wilmot replaced the teacup on its saucer and set both neatly on the side table. "You know," she began, "you have a mighty band of men who I believe can attend to your business abroad, while you could remain on land a bit longer, handling what little is needed from here."
"I could, but I won't. My greatest business is at sea, and it demands my presence. I will not require another to do so." When she attempted to protest further, he held up his hand, silencing her. "We cannot again visit this debate, arguing at every visit. Already, I have declared my stance, and it is lasting."
"Of course, it is, Your Highness."
Brand consciously blinked. He looked at her, but she deliberately looked away. He scoffed.
Your Highness? Lady Wilmot was aware of how much he despised such distant formality, especially by close relations, yet she insisted on doing as she pleased, keeping her manner, as if calling him by his given name would somehow steal his birthright. He did not care. If she chose to do as she pleased, he would continue too as he saw fit. He was her son after all.
Flexing his shoulders, he returned to his work. The breeze stirred the curtains again, sending in the light and heat of the sun. Reading through one of his letters, he replied on a clean parchment for the financial allowance of his estate on the countryside to be granted. Another letter asked for permission for the bonuses to the members of his war band. He allowed it. Although the First Light Seahorse Fleet had not been active since the annihilation of the pirates years ago, and the men were about their other jobs, still he ensured they were taken care of as he should.
"All is well with you?" Brand asked, speaking into the silence.
"Very well," Lady Wilmot replied coolly. She still had her eyes turned from him. "Can I not visit until there is some unrest?"
He spared her a moment's glance before returning his eyes to his parchment. "I had intended to visit Whitmore House before my departure."
"You had?" she asked, unbelieving, finally bringing her eyes back to him. He nodded. "That is positively thoughtful of you." she said, "Mostly you conceal your presence in town from me as though my knowing were a crime, never even allowing my visits."
"Forgive my actions, but prior happenings and motives cannot be so quickly forgotten."
"That is entirely hurtful, Your Highness," she retorted.
He ignored her. Lady Wilmot's visits were never gentle interruptions nor genuine callings; they were assaults on his privacy.
Each time she arrived unannounced—as she always did—her very words remained to remind him of his station, to disapprove of his association with Ramsay, condemn his thriving business, regarding it as a mere distraction from his royal duties, or to barrage him to marry. He had grown tired of her.
The last she had done was to interrupt his work by asking a lady to come and wait on him as soon as his ship docked, as if the ever-increasing number of maids she had stored away at his home were not sufficient.
Brand sighed. He loved her—as he must, she was his mother—but the more she insisted on controlling his life and condemning his choices, the more he came to despise the sound of her footsteps along his halls.