“It"s beautiful.” Mary Windrush stood on the terraced slope of the Herefordshire Beacon, looking down at the pass through the Malvern Hills. She grabbed her hat as a gust of wind threatened to blow it from her head. “Is that the house in which you grew up?”
“That"s the house in which I grew up.” Nearly 14 years ago, Jack left Wychwood Manor under a cloud of illegitimacy. Now, a married man with a son, he was a captain in the British Army with three campaigns and other operations under his belt. “That"s where my half-brother now lives, with his wife and my mother.”
“Shall we visit them?” Mary threw Jack a quizzical glance. “Surely they won"t still bear a grudge after all this time.”
Lighting a cheroot, Jack took a long draw as the memories crowded into his brain. “I don"t know,” he said.
