As he skipped across the green fields of his recently owned manor, he couldn't feel any joy from it. The harsh wind blowing through his hair as his white stallion galloped through the fields, the enormous view of the faraway mountains and the misty valleys, and even the loud chants of his friend who was only a few yards behind did nothing to trigger any happiness in him. He was floating through life, and as far as he was concerned, he was fine with it.
Soon, he slowed down and let his friend catch up with him, ready to listen to an earful.
"Well, thank the heavens you stopped. For a while, I thought you were going to ride into the sunset and never turn back." His friend started, his voice rising with each word.
Weston scoffed. It wasn't like the idea never occurred to him in the first place.
"It is not my fault that the horse you ride is weak, Charles." Weston replied, gently tugging on the rope wrapped around his stallion.
"Indeed? Do you truly believe the issue lies with the steed?" Charles asked, the discontent in his face masked by the rumbles of both horses.
"Well, what else could it possibly be?" Weston asked.
"I could think of many reasons, just off the top of my head." Charles replied, the heat in his voice still evident.
Weston rolled his eyes. "Somehow, I don't doubt that."
The sun started dipping into the sky and cast the most glorious shade of hue onto the Estfield manor. Like most of the estates on the outskirts of London, the Estfield Manor witnessed the brightest and the harshest sides of nature, depending on the season. A few miles later, Weston got off his horse and started to lead it across the fields, his legs grazing past the overgrown leaves.
"We should start to prepare for the season." Weston started. "It is closer than we think."
"And are you going to entertain any of the festivities this time around?" Charles asked.
"I always entertain the festivities."
"No one is here but us and the horses, Weston. You don't have to put up the facade. The horses aren't going to tell your mother." Charles replied, dragging the rope alongside Weston.
"I do not know what you're talking about." Weston replied, wondering just how long he could feign ignorance.
Silence ensued between them for a few moments. They both continued to walk their horses with nothing but the warm sun shining on their faces.
"Very well, then." Charles replied.
Weston drew a sigh. Charles had been his closest friend for as long as he could remember, and he knew his friend wouldn't let this go easily. Perhaps it might do him some good if he shared the weight on his heart with someone else.
"It is the day after tomorrow." He started.
Charles turned to look at him. "What?"
"The day after tomorrow. It'll be six years since Eliza—" He paused. Six years, and he still couldn't bring himself to say the word. Six years, and he was still hoping it was all a dream. A nasty nightmare he would wake up from soon enough.
"Oh." Charles whispered, a wave of understanding crashing into him. "Do you plan to visit her resting place then?"
"Yes." Weston replied as if it wasn't the kind of question that needed consideration. Of course, he was going to visit her grave. He always did, even when it wasn't an anniversary.
"I shall come with you." Charles said, his voice firm.
"Charles. It is a long way away. I don't want you to—"
"I am not asking for your permission." Charles replied, the air of finality in his voice palpable.
Weston nodded, grateful. While he had become disillusioned with the world, it wasn't lost on him that Charles had been nothing but a good friend to him over the years. As he led his horse to the closest shade, he wondered how he would've survived the past six years if Charles hadn't been there, acting as the voice of reason and giving him the needed advice.
"I take it Lady Beatrice doesn't know the details of your journey? Or that you plan to go on one at all?" Charles asked once they stopped under a giant oak tree.
Weston scoffed. "And what good will come of that?"
The last thing he needed was for his mother getting wind of the fact that he was going to visit Eliza's grave. He could almost picture her, eyes wide and her throatily angry voice yelling at him.
