Chương 3
“Yes.”
He entered as far as the ivory rug. His shoulders stayed lowered, as though the room had a ceiling only he could feel.
Oliver stirred at the change in voice.
Edmund stopped.
“He knows you are here,” Clara said.
“That seems unlikely.”
“Then there is no harm in remaining.”
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. It made him look less exhausted and, for a second, younger. “Do you commonly order your employers about?”
“Only before breakfast.”
He stared at her.
Clara had not intended humor. It came when she was tired, usually at the wrong moment.
To her surprise, Edmund’s mouth almost changed. Not a smile. Merely the memory of how one might begin.
Then Oliver made a small sound, and the moment closed.
Edmund looked at the infant’s face. “May I?”
Clara thought he meant to hold him. She adjusted her arms.
Edmund stepped backward.
“No,” he said. “I only meant—may I see him?”
Clara turned Oliver slightly without changing his support. The baby’s eyes opened. They were dark and unfocused, still learning the world.
Edmund’s breathing caught.
Oliver moved one fist near his cheek. His fingers opened and closed.
“He has her hands,” Edmund said.
Clara did not ask whose hands. The silver ring told her enough.
“He may have your eyes.”
“They are blue.”
“For now.”
Edmund watched for another few seconds. Then he turned toward the door.
“Mr. Harcourt.”
He stopped.
“The London clinic will be discussed again if his feeding fails.”
“I know.”
“He will need the same people around him.”
“I know that as well.”
“He will also need you.”
Edmund faced her. The irritation returned, but beneath it was fear so clean and immediate that Clara nearly looked away.
“You have been here four days,” he said. “Do not presume to understand what he needs from me.”
“No, sir.”
He waited, perhaps expecting an argument.
Clara lowered her gaze to Oliver.
Edmund left.
The baby began to cry before the sound of his footsteps had disappeared.
For the next six days, Bellweather rearranged itself around feeding times.
Meals were delayed. Bells went unanswered. Footmen learned to cross the east corridor without allowing the service door to swing shut. The vacuum cleaner was banished from the upper floor until midday, and Lady Agnes complained twice about dust on the ancestral portrait before admitting she had not noticed any herself.
Clara fed Oliver in the pale-blue chair beside the window. She used the same bottle, the same cream cloth, and the same quiet sequence: settle, wait, offer, pause. She kept the milk level and angle consistent. She did not praise him for eating, because food was not obedience. She did not react when he refused, because refusal was information.
He gained three ounces.
Dr. Mercer called it encouraging.
Lady Agnes called it providence.
Mrs. Finch called it three ounces.
Edmund said nothing.
He came to the doorway at different hours, sometimes during a feeding and sometimes after. He never crossed the edge of the ivory rug again. Clara stopped inviting him. Pressure, she had learned, could hide inside kindness as easily as inside force.
Oliver always noticed.
His eyes would shift toward the dark opening. His fingers would pause against Clara’s apron. Once, he released the nipple and stared until Edmund withdrew.
Afterward, Clara found him in the morning room with estate papers spread across the desk and an untouched cup of coffee near his elbow.
“You left too quickly,” she said.
He looked up. “Is he ill?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“He was looking at you.”
Edmund returned his attention to the paper. “He is four months old.”
“Yes.”
“He looks at lamps.”
“He prefers the shaded one.”
“Then perhaps I resemble furniture.”
Clara stood near the door, unwilling to enter farther without invitation. The morning room smelled faintly of leather, ash, and coffee that had gone cold.
“You left because he stopped drinking.”
“I left because my presence disturbed him.”
“You cannot become familiar by disappearing whenever he notices you.”
Edmund placed his pen down carefully. “You seem determined to make this about me.”
“It is about him.”
“He is eating. That was the problem.”
“It was one problem.”
His eyes sharpened. “And the others have revealed themselves to you in a week?”
Clara could have spoken gently. She could have thanked him for his time and retreated before rank hardened into anger. Instead she said, “The others are standing in doorways.”
Silence spread between them.
Outside, someone dragged a shovel across the front steps. The scrape came again, uneven and ordinary.
Edmund looked at his wedding ring.
“My wife died in this house,” he said.
Clara did not move.
“Not in the nursery. Everyone assumes that is why I avoid it.” He rotated the ring once around his finger. “She died in the blue bedroom at the end of our corridor. I have entered that room. I sleep two doors away from it. Grief is not architecture, Miss Vale.”
“No, sir.”
“When Oliver cries, I hear the last night she was conscious. When he stops, I wonder whether he is breathing. When I hold him, I remember that she asked me if he was warm, and I told her yes, though I had not touched him. I had not even looked.”
His voice remained controlled. That control made the words harder to receive.
Clara’s fingers tightened around the edge of her notebook.
“She died believing I had done what she asked,” Edmund continued. “I had not.”
“You were afraid.”
“I was a coward.”
“Those are not always different.”
His gaze rose to hers. “There. Another opinion.”
“Yes.”
“You should be careful with them.”
“I have tried. They escape.”
The corner of his mouth moved again, but this time the almost-smile carried no warmth.
“You may go.”
May you like
Clara went.
She spent the afternoon angry with him and more angry with herself. The anger followed her into the nursery, where Oliver refused the first ounce and cried until sweat dampened the fine dark-blond hair at his temples.
