Chương 12
At supper, Lady Agnes praised the progress as if she had designed the plan. Edmund let her.
Marianne returned to London but called each evening. Sometimes she asked about Oliver. Sometimes she asked whether Edmund had eaten. Once, she and Lady Agnes argued over the telephone for twenty minutes about the correct thickness of a sleeping blanket.
Ruth listened from the nursery and said, “Families are a preventable condition.”
Clara laughed so suddenly that Oliver startled and began to cry.
It took both women five minutes to settle him.
They laughed again afterward, more quietly.
By January, the snow along the beech branches had turned gray at the edges. The west lake remained frozen, and the smaller swan had resumed moving only after Mr. Bell threatened it with a laundry basket.
Edmund fed Oliver every morning and most evenings.
He still wore black. The three-piece suits remained carefully tailored, though the waistcoats now bore occasional traces of milk. His shoulders stayed slightly lowered. He never cried loudly. He did not speak of healing.
He learned to recognize the difference between hunger, fatigue, and outrage over a twisted sleeve.
He learned that Oliver preferred the left side of the pale-blue chair.
He learned to wait.
Some nights, he failed.
On the third anniversary month of Eleanor’s death, he did not enter the nursery at all. Clara found him in the morning room after midnight with the lights off and the feeding notebook open on the desk.
“You missed two bottles,” she said.
“Ruth was here.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
“Then he was safe.”
Clara stood beside the cold fireplace. “You were not.”
“I am not a child.”
“No.”
“Do not use that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one that implies patience while delivering judgment.”
Clara considered this. “I have several. You will need to be more specific.”
He shut the notebook. “Go to bed.”
“You brought the feeding record downstairs.”
“I wished to check his weight.”
“It is written on the last page.”
“I know.”
“Then why is the book open to November?”
His fingers tightened on the cover.
Clara saw the entry. The date of the first successful bottle. Beneath the quantities, she had written: Father present at doorway. Infant calm.
“I was not present,” Edmund said. “Not truly.”
“You were there.”
“I stood outside while a stranger held my son.”
“You were grieving.”
“I was hiding.”
“Yes.”
He looked up, wounded by her agreement.
Clara sat across from him. The dark room held only the faint light from the corridor.
“I still hide,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to agree with every ugly thing I say about myself?”
“No. Only the accurate ones.”
His laugh was quiet and bitter.
Clara folded her hands. “You missed today.”
“I could not hear him cry.”
“You heard him from this room.”
“That is not what I meant.”
She waited.
Edmund looked toward the window, where his reflection was almost invisible.
“Eleanor asked me to bring Oliver to her on the last morning,” he said. “The nurse said it was unwise. The doctor said she needed rest. I was relieved. I told myself I was following instructions.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
“She died that afternoon,” he continued. “She never held him again. I never brought him.”
The ordinary clock on the desk ticked between them.
“I cannot change that,” he said. “Everyone says it as though the impossibility should release me. It does not.”
“No.”
“What does?”
“Nothing.”
He turned toward her.
Clara’s voice softened. “Nothing releases you from it. You carry it differently, or you let it decide everything.”
“That is a poor comfort.”
“I did not offer comfort.”
He rubbed his thumb over the wedding ring.
“Oliver will wake at two,” she said.
“Ruth is on duty.”
“Yes.”
Edmund remained silent.
Clara stood. “You could go upstairs before he wakes.”
He looked at the notebook.
She left him there.
At two, she heard his footsteps enter the nursery.
In February, Lady Agnes suffered a minor fall on the east staircase.
Nothing broke. She bruised one hip, blamed the carpet, and spent three days in bed issuing instructions through Mrs. Finch. Her absence from the nursery altered the household more than anyone admitted.
Ruth fed Oliver alone.
Marianne visited without announcing herself.
Edmund attended a land meeting in the village and returned before dusk rather than sending apologies.
Clara slept six consecutive hours for the first time since arriving at Bellweather.
On the fourth day, Lady Agnes appeared in the nursery with a walking stick she refused to use correctly.
She found Edmund on the rug with Oliver lying across his raised knees. The baby had begun smiling at faces and was attempting to seize his father’s tie.
“Do not let him pull that,” Lady Agnes said.
“He appears committed.”
“He will put it in his mouth.”
“He puts everything in his mouth.”
“That does not make the tie clean.”
Edmund surrendered the tie.
Oliver made a sound of outrage.
Lady Agnes sat near the wall, lowering herself with care. “He has your temper.”
“Marianne says he has Eleanor’s.”
“Marianne thinks Eleanor invented anger.”
Clara stood near the cradle, sorting clean clothing. She kept her face turned away.
Lady Agnes watched Oliver grip Edmund’s finger.
“I frightened you,” she said.
Edmund looked up.
“After she died.”
He did not answer.
“I thought if I kept everyone moving, none of us would collapse. Nurses, doctors, schedules, changes. I called it management.”
“You were trying to save him.”
“I was trying not to lose again.”
Oliver kicked one foot against Edmund’s waistcoat.
Lady Agnes adjusted the handle of her walking stick. “You should have stopped me.”
“I could not stop myself.”
“No.”
The word did not sound like forgiveness. It sounded like recognition.
After a moment, Lady Agnes held out her hands. “May I?”
Edmund hesitated.
Clara noticed it. So did Lady Agnes.
May you like
The older woman lowered her hands.
Edmund looked down at Oliver. Then he lifted him and placed him carefully in his grandmother’s arms.
