1812 | Scottland | With Bainbridge
Baylor’s heart stirred at Bainbridge’s observation, a flicker of surprise crossing his countenance. He turned to his companion, absorbing the compliment with quiet contemplation. The notion that his complexion was brighter, his demeanor more at ease, felt oddly comforting, a balm to the persistent weight of his concerns.
“Do you truly think so?” he murmured, his voice low, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the tranquillity of the moment. A faint smile touched his lips, briefly lifting the heaviness that so often marked his expression.
Yet, as Bainbridge continued, that smile faltered. The suggestion that he might feel at home here only because it was far from his obligations cut to the heart of his unrest. His gaze drifted to the rolling hills, where the distant figures of farmers and their oxen moved across the landscape, offering a tempting illusion of escape from the burdens of title and duty.
“There is a peculiar freedom in this place,” Baylor mused, his voice tinged with a wistful longing. “In London, the weight of expectations is ever-present, pressing down upon me, a constant reminder of my duty to family and title. Here, though… here, such concerns feel as distant as the horizon." He cast a glance back at Bainbridge, his brow furrowing slightly. “And still, there is guilt in even contemplating such an escape. For what sort of man am I to long for reprieve from the very duties I am bound to uphold?”
Baylor sighed, the weight of his responsibilities once again pressing upon him. “The pursuit of a suitable match, as you well know, is no easy matter,” he said, his tone clipped with frustration. “Every consideration must be made with an eye toward both family and title. It is no small burden, particularly when one’s inclinations - and dare I say personality - are at odds with the very society to which one belongs.”
He paused, turning back to Bainbridge with a thoughtful expression. “You spoke truly when you said a good match requires two things: the approval of one’s family and the joy of genuine companionship. Yet, it seems to me a near impossible balance to strike, and I wonder if I am even suited for such a life. Was I born into this role, or am I simply playing a part laid out for me by others?”
Bainbridge’s sudden chuckle drew Baylor’s frown, though it was less one of offense and more of weary acknowledgment. “It seems foolish, I know,” Baylor conceded, his tone quiet, almost resigned. “To think that fleeing here, to a place such as this, might somehow free me from the expectations of my title. But no matter how far one runs, society’s rules will always find you. It is not the title alone that binds us, but the very nature of the world in which we live.”
Baylor absorbed Bainbridge’s words as his friend’s tone shifted, the seriousness of the discussion settling between them. “You are, of course, correct,” he said with a sigh. “Renouncing my title would not rid me of the weight of society, merely exchange one set of obligations for another. There is no escaping the dictates of one’s position, no matter the distance from home.”
His gaze returned to the hills, the lush green expanse doing little to ease the turmoil within him. “I suppose the challenge is not in escaping these duties, but in learning to reconcile oneself to them,” he remarked quietly, more to himself than to Bainbridge.
Straightening his posture, Baylor allowed a small, determined smile to return. “But perhaps you are right about one thing - an ale at a quiet inn may do more for my troubled mind than all the philosophizing in the world. Come, let us seek such solace while we can. It would be a welcome reprieve, if only for an evening.”
As the two gentlemen descended the rolling hill, the distant hum of village life grew louder, carried on the crisp Highland air. Baylor and Bainbridge strode side by side, their boots crunching against the gravel path as they made their way toward a small settlement nestled in the valley below. The thatched roofs of cottages clustered together, smoke curling lazily from chimneys, suggesting warmth and company within.
“There,” Baylor gestured, pointing toward a modest stone building at the heart of the village. Its wooden sign, creaking gently in the breeze, bore the worn but unmistakable image of a wild stag - The Stag’s Head Inn. Though simple in appearance, it exuded the rustic charm of the countryside, a far cry from the refined establishments of London. “This looks like it’ll serve our purpose,” he remarked with a faint smile, gesturing toward the establishment as they neared.
