He was always alone; he did not mix with the staff beneath him, nor the family above him. Others might have considered this fact both a blessing and a burden; but he was not a man to dwell on his personal requirements. In fact, after so many years of serving the Cavendish family as their butler, he did not know what personal requirements he might have. The pursuit of happiness was, in any case, an empty thing, he had found. It rarely brought satisfaction. He walked steadily, as he did so much else: calmly, at a measured pace. For a young man—and he had indeed once been a young man on this walk—it might have taken an hour or so to cover the four miles. Now, in his sixtieth year, it took him considerably longer than that. He stood on the bridge and watched the water go by, and then took himself to the bench seat built into the churchyard wall. The little village—much like the great house hidden now beyond the trees and slight hill—was a picture of perfect peace.
