Chapter Three

      Thomas tossed and turned, throwing the light sheet from his bed with a growl of frustration. It was nearly dawn yet he hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours and now he felt groggy and unsettled.

      Reaching out to the small table beside his bed he picked up the well-read letter, the real reason for his disturbed night. Every time he read the now-familiar words his conscience collided with his more selfish needs and he came away uncertain as to what course of action to take. And if there was one thing Thomas didn’t like it was uncertainty. With a sigh he sat up in bed and started to read again, wondering if he was just punishing himself or hoping for divine inspiration, a new point of view, knowing the words and the pleas would still be the same as all the other times he’d read it.

      My darling son,

      I hope you are well and are finding what you need to soothe your soul on your travels. It has been three years and eight months since I last set eyes on you—one thousand three hundred and forty-five days since you left. You must know I don’t blame you for leaving—I actively encouraged you to go—but I miss you every minute of every day that you are gone.

      I am keeping as well as can be expected. My friends ask when I will come out of mourning...when I will start to move on. They don’t understand what it is like to lose a husband and a son. I don’t think anyone does, apart from you.

      Ever since you left I have tried to be patient, tried to allow you to grieve and come to terms with the uncertain future in your own way. You know I have never pressured you to return, never pushed your responsibilities or the estate’s need for a master. I truly hoped you would find peace on your travels, revel in new experiences and return to me with a renewed passion for life, but three years and eight months is a long time to wait and now I want my son home.

      I’m lonely, Thomas. I’m surrounded by friends, by extended family, by servants I have known for half my life, but without you it all seems empty. So I have decided to be selfish. I know you have lost a father and a brother, and I know you’ve needed to come to terms with a possibly cruel and difficult future, but now I ask that you think of me.

      Come home to me. Fill the house with laughter once again. Allow yourself to think about the future, to hope. A wife and child might be too much to ask, I know that, but please consider returning home and taking up your birthright.

      I live in hope that I might embrace you in my arms one day soon.

      Your loving mother

      He wanted to put the letter out of his mind, to forget the hurt and loneliness that must have triggered his mother to write in this way after allowing him to fulfil his own wanderlust for nearly four years without a word of protest. She had been the one who’d encouraged him to leave in the first place, who’d urged him to travel and experience a bit of the world so he would have no regrets about his own life. Thomas knew soon he would have to return to England, return to the memories and the half-empty family home. He was not cold-hearted enough to refuse a direct plea from his mother.

      A swim, that was what he needed, a bracing and refreshing start to the new day. Maybe then he could find it in himself to start planning the long journey back home. Thomas jumped out of bed, grabbed a towel and tucked it loosely around his waist. He padded barefoot through the villa, resolutely not looking at the closed door to the guest room, and out on to the terrace. Even though the sun’s rays were just beginning to filter over the horizon Thomas could already feel the heat in the air. It would be another scorching day, the type that sometimes made him long for the cool breezes and cloudy skies of England.

      It only took him thirty seconds to reach the lake, two more to stretch and brace himself for the icy shock of the water and then he dropped his towel to the ground and dived in. The blackness consumed him immediately and as Thomas glided deeper he could barely make out the shape of his hands a few inches in front of his face. The water skimmed over his skin, washing away the remnants of the restless night and invigorating him for a new day. Forty seconds in and his lungs began burning, but still he glided deeper. Fifty seconds and he felt the tremor in his muscles from lack of air. Sixty seconds and little grey spots began to appear before his eyes. One more pull of his arms, and then another, the ultimate test of his mind’s control over his body. Only when his head began to spin did Thomas relent and kick powerfully to the surface, breaking free of the water and taking in huge gulps of air.

      He floated on his back for a while, allowing his body to recover and his breathing to return to normal. As the sun started to rise over the hills and reflect off the water’s surface Thomas began to swim. He took long, leisurely strokes, propelling himself through the water at a moderate speed and focusing on the horizon.

      This was his favourite time of day, whilst he was powering through the water he could plan and reflect without any distractions. It was just him, the early morning air and the silent lake.

      He swam for about fifteen minutes before turning back, the villa now the size of a model house on the banks of the lake. It was still peaceful, but there were signs of life stirring around the edge of the lake. A farmer’s cart trundled along the dusty track, kicking up a plume of dirt. A young boy chased an eager dog down to the water’s edge and further away to his left the sleepy village was beginning to show signs of activity.

      As Thomas reached the edge of the lake he paused, turning to look out over the murky blue water before pulling himself up the old