Page 105 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
He couldn’t stand against it any longer. He no longer had the strength to deny that power, that compelling force.
Something inside him broke. Gave way.
And the man he could be, the man he had tried so hard to corral, to deny and never risk being, broke free of all restraint and took charge.
He searched the room and spotted Winifred and Quentin. Cloaking his near-desperation to be gone, he tacked though the crowd to their side.
Quentin looked inquiringly at him.
Winifred smiled. “Any possibilities?”
His mind was already racing ahead. Despite his inner grimness—how could he have been such a fool?—he tried for a smile, but from Winifred’s fading delight, it wasn’t much of one. He turned the expression into a grimace. “My leg’s playing up. I took the long way here, and I think I overdid it.”
“Oh.” Winifred’s concern was immediate; he felt small. “But,” she said, patting his arm, “at least you came, and you did meet some new ladies. Next time, you’ll have more time to talk.”
He couldn’t force a nod. Instead, he held out his hand to his uncle. “Sir.”
“Take care, my boy.” Quentin’s grip was strong. “And don’t come in if your leg needs more rest.”
He nodded, then he gave in to impulse and bent and kissed his aunt’s cheek. She’d been as much of a mother to him as he’d allowed, yet he doubted he would share much of their lives from now on.
Winifred blinked up at him, trying to read his face and failing. Again, she patted his arm, but this time in benediction. “Yes, Thomas—do take care.”
With a half bow, he left them, left the room, collected his hat and cane, and quit the house.
On the pavement, he glanced back, then looked around at the quiet streets. He might visit, but this would never be—could never be—his home.
He set off to walk back to his lodgings by the shorter, more direct route.
About him, the heart of Glasgow thrummed, but this wasn’t where his heart was, nor his soul.
His heart was someone else’s and his soul had found its true home.
He would be leaving in the morning, and he wouldn’t be coming back.
* * *
He had a lot to arrange—an entire life to restructure. He sat at the small desk in his lodgings, and with the lamps turned high, worked steadily through each aspect.
Carrick Enterprises was surprisingly straightforward, up to a point. That point being how much involvement he wished to retain in the years ahead. He wasn’t sure; when he looked inside and examined the new prospect, the new landscape of his life taking shape, he could see a place for the firm, see a value in retaining his interest and keeping a connection in the importing and exporting trade. The Vale was largely an agricultural concern, and some of its produce could easily be exported.
He was somewhat surprised by how readily the decision about the firm came; now he’d faced his reality and, guided by said reality’s harsh light, had revised his direction, he felt little lingering attachment to the firm, much less than he’d expected. Carrick Enterprises had been his father’s dream; Thomas had assumed it was also his, but it wasn’t. It never had been, because his heart had never been involved. The people, he would miss, but the firm itself?
All of which underscored that he’d made the right decision and was, finally, marching down the correct road.
His goodbyes would initially have to be made by letter. The compulsion to return to Lucilla and the Vale was now full-blown; he wasn’t prepared to dally in Glasgow a moment longer than absolutely necessary. He—perhaps with Lucilla by his side—would return at some point, to visit and explain in person, but for now, the written word would have to suffice.
Nib scratching, he penned letters to Quentin, Winifred, and Humphrey, and short notes to several others in the firm, and still briefer notes to Mrs. Manning and Dobson, wishing them well until next he saw them.
His landlady, his banker, his solicitor—to them, he wrote that he was heading into the country and expected the change to be permanent, but that he wished his current arrangements to stand, at least for the time being.
Then he threw himself into cataloguing the many and various deals and potential contracts and contacts he hadn’t yet passed on to Humphrey. It was like emptying his mind, clearing out the past and creating space for his true future.
With the act came clarity and a burgeoning peace—a simple confidence he hadn’t known since childhood. A clarity of vision, a sureness of purpose, and a certainty that his feet were following the right path.
It was past two o’clock when he tidied the desk and turned down the lamps. Outside the windows, Glasgow slumbered.
Half an hour later, he was packed; when it came to it, he had little by way of meaningful possessions. He set the trunk by the door with a note for his landlady, asking her to send it on.
