Charles spent the next ten days reacquainting himself with London and their circle of regular companions. These friends dated from their university days, consisting of permanent city dwellers and visiting country gentlemen like themselves. 

The resumption of long-term connections required no intensive maintenance. A few more thoughtful fellows sympathetically asked after Charles’ mother or clapped him on the shoulder saying, “It’s good to see you back in town.”

Charles accepted invitations to dine out or other kinds of organised entertainment as though the climactic events of the past several months fell outside his London existence. Reality could only be kept at bay for so long, but it was still a soothing cocoon.

At home in Rupert Street, Charles fell into similar settled habits with Avery, both intimately and domestically. It’s like I’ve never been away, he mused. He became re-accustomed to waking to see Avery’s head on the pillow, or his smiling face across the breakfast table. On both occasions, he did not hesitate to offer a kiss. Although, if they were both still abed, kisses led to a rousing start to the day. 

Occasionally, Charles remembered they hadn’t yet embarked on the discussion that he had judged so all-important when in Gloucestershire. That reminder pricked his conscience occasionally, but there never seemed to be a suitable time. When Charles readied himself to speak, they were expected elsewhere, or a friend dropped by on the off chance they were at home. 

As always, Charles was lulled into contentment in Avery’s proximity. Whether they rose early to be on horseback with hired steeds on Rotten Row to blow off the cobwebs long before the fashionable hour or lingered over a sociable glass of wine at a tavern, having Avery at his side propped up Charles’ battered self-belief. 

The longer he hesitated, the more he questioned whether discretion might be the better course. Charles didn’t want to misstep and raise the issue of their past disharmony and disrupt their newfound happiness. It’ll happen when it happens, he reassured himself. 

His mother wrote frequently to assure Charles that the farm had not gone to rack and ruin. Her letters were full of news of Charles’ siblings together with a few trifling requests found in London shops as if that justified Charles’ leave of absence.

 She enlarged upon the odd point of concern in household organisation that Charles could easily solve by letter. That his mother was at pains to emphasise his usefulness caused Charles some heart-searching. He resolved to be of better cheer when he returned home, or at least give the appearance of equilibrium. These bouts of self-doubt were all the more difficult to come to terms with as they were a recent occurrence. Charles had never recognised he was prone to melancholy while his father was alive.

At breakfast one morning, he even received a scrawl from Albie, as caretaker of the estate business in Charles’ absence. Unlike Mrs. Denham’s careful reassurance, Albie was far more interested in listing his expectations for his upcoming stay in London. The breadth of his scope made Charles’ eyebrows rise. He passed the letter over to Avery, who exclaimed, “Good grief! Does he want to pack this into less than a week? Or is he expecting to stay for an entire year?”