As they sat, they spoke further. Henry asked constant curious questions about his uncle's service to Her Majesty. Had he killed anyone? What sort of postings had he held? Had he seen one of the black aboriginals? John Paul found himself answering all the questions with candor and ease.
John Paul had viewed his service, the past several years, as something that had happened to him. It felt unworthy of comment or discussion. When the word began to pass around that the English would be pulling out of Australia, he had decided the time was right to come home.
When he had left, it seemed quite a smart idea. When the time had come to gather his family, though, he found that they were all dead and gone. Only one had been found during the weeks leading up to his departure: a forgotten nephew he was reminded of by the detective he’d hired.
The child had only been a year or two old when John Paul had seen him last. All he remembered was a particularly attractive young governess watching over a carriage.
All the conversation about his service reminded him that it might not have been so uneventful as he recalled it. Henry treated every little morsel of each story as a juicy detail that needed to be enjoyed to its fullest.
How had they found that murderer, he would ask. What about such-and-such riot? Then John Paul would recount the story. It was difficult to keep details straight in his mind of what had happened in the decade since assuming a position of command. Even still, John Paul found himself enjoying the conversation.
The food on their plates was long-since eaten and their bill paid when John Paul finally stood, and he gestured that they should go. He began to think aloud about the other stories that might be of interest to Henry. So good was his mood, in fact, that without thinking he said something he immediately regretted:
“Ah, and then I haven't said about the gold, either…”
He didn’t look back at his nephew as they walked. If he had, he would have seen him standing agape for several seconds before he running to catch up.
On the carriage-ride home, Henry sat inside and dozed. Even for his willingness to walk around Derby and enthusiastic conversation, he must have been quite tired. When they arrived back at the estate, John Paul escorted his nephew to the bedroom—the only one with a bed worth discussing.
“I’ll wake you in a few hours; until then, rest here. You must be exhausted.”
“Ah…” Henry rubbed at his eyes, seeming oblivious to his nap. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“I’ll bring your luggage in, no need to worry about that. Just rest now. I’ll be here when you wake.”
Then John Paul left the room. He sat down in the parlor and began to read a book he’d bought back in London. It had seemed such a strange sort of luxury, the time to read books, and it had taken him several days to even get into the mood to read at all.
Now he was sitting there, reading some a novel by some Irishman who he hadn’t heard of before. It was not particularly bad, he decided. He had hardly been able to resist the t
hing in his idle hours since he had begun in the days before.
Eventually, though, his mind too excited from what was to come, he put the book down and stretched. The only thing for him now would be to find something else to pass the time. He looked around the home once more, with fresh eyes.
There were twelve rooms on the ground floor, he counted; of them, four were empty. Into one of those he had pushed the new bed, now with a young man sleeping in it. Outside was a shack that more than likely housed gardening equipment. It looked surprisingly unlike it would fall down compared to the rest of the home.
They would need to make a full list of what needed doing now that he had exhausted the problems he could solve on elbow grease alone. They would need to buy supplies if they were to make any sort of chore of the thing. Still, it was preferable to letting the entire place collapse in on itself over the next generations.
John Paul had no such intention; this was going to be a home for his family for years to come. He had decided that even before he'd bought the place, even if he had to do some extra work to keep it in good condition for future generations.
He walked over to his own trunk, which he had pushed up against a wall until he had a room truly prepared to move into. He opened it up and started to search for a slate and a bit of chalk. As he dug through it, though, he heard the noise of someone walking up behind him.
He resisted his natural instinct to turn and look; it must have been Henry, he decided. It wasn’t worth stopping in his efforts to check and make certain. His suspicions were confirmed soon enough when the young man walked into view and bent down to inspect the trunk himself.
“What are you looking for, there?”
“You’ll have seen the state of house when you came inside, of course.”
“Well…” The young man said sheepishly. “I wasn’t paying too close attention, but there did seem to be some sort of disarray, certainly, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Not at all,” John Paul replied, shifting around photographs and ledgers and clothing. “But if we’re to return this place to its former glory, then we’ll need to know what has gone awry, don’t you agree?”
Henry nodded without saying anything.
“And so I am looking for a slate to write on, you see,” the elder continued, “So that we might make an inventory.”
At last he found it, pulling the slate free, and beside it a box that he pulled alongside it. When he demonstratively opened the top, it showed inside several long bits of chalk. He grabbed one and placed the box back inside the trunk before closing the lid on the whole thing.
“Now,” John Paul said as he stood, “Would you care to join me?”