Before and after.

This is the first draft:

"Master Jack? Master Jack? Sorry darling, but we're here now and you're going to have to get down."

Jack opened his eyes, got his first view of Wentbridge Castle and liked it. The thing was someone's stately home, of a certainty, but had square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house that gave injury if it received insult. Later he'd wonder why such pugilistic architecture lived in Devon, but for now it gave him a solid sense of security.

His arrival had clearly been expected, as a group of people came out of the front entrance as he stood, swaying lightly. None of the faces were familiar to him, but he picked out the lady of the house instantly.  A handsome woman with an air of command about her, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle.

"You look as if you need some time to recover from your journey. The deck chairs are already set up, so perhaps  you'd like to take a rest until lunch and you can meet the others properly then."

Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked like the answer to a prayer. He slumped onto one of them and stammered out a half apology for his state. Bridie promised him a flask of beef tea and he drifted off in the silence of her going away.

An indeterminate time later he heard voices coming back towards him, but couldn't raise the energy to open eyes and engage in conversation, so didn't.

"Ah, sound again. He really does look most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with knives with natives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, I believe, but David says he a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father is in the East, Singapore, I think he said, training troops, for goodness sake. Apparently, the boy was at school when he fell sick and the father contacted David to ask for help, so… Oh, just leave the flask. He can have something when he wakes."

"Good looking young lad, he is mam, bright too from what I saw of him on the ride in. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man that's not decrepit in the whole of the area. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I saw Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and off this weekend."

"Damn young fools. I know I shouldn't say it, but since they started using gas, I can't see any good end to this war. It's going to grind on until even fatuous idiots like French get tired of it. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand."

They drifted off, or he did, though his mind seemed attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. He tried to put a face to the name and came up with something from a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. Did they come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a picture on a bedside dresser. Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, he felt. Well, never mind, he was used to it. A face, a woman's, pretty and concerned floated into his mind, but then the fog rolled over him again and he slept.

Look at the cracks in the ceiling;, at the patterns on the bathroom tiles; at a splash of water on a concrete path. There will be faces in the dots and lines; patches and splashes. Perhaps there will also be dragons and demons, but always there will be faces. Human minds find them in things that human eyes look at. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering it and the cracks and crevices faceting it, were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's.  

"He looks like death!"

"As close to it as he's been, how else would he look? He will heal, though. This place, these people, they will do that for him.  Rest assured, he'll get well here. A day, two, you won't recognise him. "

Then the faces faded and all that was left was lichen. 

And this is what I got after a bit of playing with Pro Writing Aid:

"Master Jack? Master Jack? Sorry darling, but we're here now and you're going to have to get down."

Jack opened his eyes, got his first view of Wentbridge Castle and liked it. Someone's stately home, of a certainty, but square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house giving injury if receiving insult. Later he'd wonder why such pugilistic architecture lived in Devon, but for now it gave him a solid sense of security.

His arrival had clearly been expected, as a group of people came out of the front entrance as he stood, swaying lightly. None of the faces were familiar to him, but he picked out the lady of the house instantly.  A handsome woman with an air of command, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle.

"Yes, you'll need time to recover from your journey, surely. The deck chairs are set up, so perhaps you'd like to take a rest until lunch.  You can meet the others properly later."

Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked the answer to a prayer. He slumped onto one of them and stammered out a half apology for his state. Bridie promised him a flask of beef tea and he drifted off in the silence when she left.

An indeterminate time later voices came back towards him, but couldn't raise the energy to open eyes and engage in conversation, so didn't.

"Ah, sound again. He really is most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with knives with natives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, I believe, but David says he a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father is in the East. Singapore, he said, training troops, for goodness sake. The boy was at school when he fell sick and the father contacted David to ask for help, so… Oh, just leave the flask. He can have something when he wakes."

"Good looking young lad, he is mam, bright too from what I saw of him on the ride in. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man that's not decrepit in the whole of the area. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I met Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and off this weekend."

"Damn young fools. I know I shouldn't say it, but since they started using gas, I can't see any good end to this war. It's going to grind on until even fatuous idiots like French get tired. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand."

"How old is he mam?"

"Fifteen, David said. Looks older, but then… "

They drifted off, or he did, though his mind seemed attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. He tried to put a face to the name and came up with something from a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. He had the knife in his luggage. Did it come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a knife and a picture on a bedside dresser. Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, he felt. Well, never mind, he was used to it. A face, a woman's, pretty and concerned, floated into his mind, but then the fog rolled over him again and he slept.

***

Look at the cracks in the ceiling; at the patterns on the bathroom tiles; at a splash of water on a concrete path. There will be faces in the dots and lines; patches and splashes. Perhaps also dragons and demons, but always faces. Human minds find them in things human eyes observe. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering and the cracks and crevices faceting were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's.  

"He looks like death!"

Jack, sleeping, heard nothing but distant soughing of wind in branches.

"As close as he's been, how else would he? He will heal, though. This place, these people, they will do that for him.  Rest assured, he'll get well here. A day, two, you won't recognise him. "

Then the faces faded and only lichen remained. 

  The difference isn't as dramatic as it has seemed with bits I've done before, but I do think the second draft is an improvement.