Chương 6
“You have no idea what it costs me to be here.”
“No.”
“You have no idea what I hear when he cries.”
“No.”
“You have no right to speak as though fear is a choice.”
Clara met his gaze. “Leaving is.”
His jaw tightened.
Oliver shifted, disturbed by the tension. Clara placed the bottle on the side table.
Edmund’s eyes followed it. “My mother says you will accompany him.”
“She has offered.”
“You will be paid twice your salary.”
“I have not accepted.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he leaves with me, he will learn that I am the only safe person in his life.”
“At present, you are.”
“That must change.”
A shadow of panic crossed Edmund’s face. It was gone almost at once.
“You are saying you will not go.”
“I am saying I will not become a replacement for everyone he has lost.”
“He is an infant. He has not formed some moral objection to the family.”
“No. He has formed a bodily expectation. People arrive, force him to eat, become anxious when he does not, and disappear. I am useful because I have not done those things. But if I remain the only person who can feed him, then I have solved nothing.”
Edmund looked toward the window. Snow drifted from the bare branches in soft clumps.
“What do you propose?”
“You sit in the nursery during every feeding this weekend.”
He gave a quiet, disbelieving breath. “That is your solution?”
“It is the beginning.”
“And Monday?”
“On Monday, you decide whether you are sending him away because he needs to go or because you cannot bear to stay.”
Edmund’s face hardened. “You forget your position.”
“No, sir. I remember it whenever I speak.”
He left the nursery without another word.
That evening, Clara found a note beneath the feeding record.
I will attend at nine.
The handwriting leaned sharply to the right.
At nine, Edmund arrived before the bottle was warmed. He sat in the chair Marianne had used, close to the wall and far from the cradle.
Clara did not thank him.
Oliver was sleepy. He accepted the bottle easily and drank with his eyes half closed.
Edmund watched the milk level descend.
“What do I do?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“I have been told that is the problem.”
“Tonight, nothing is enough.”
He sat with his hands clasped between his knees. The silver ring pressed against his knuckle.
After several minutes, he said, “The swan has moved.”
Clara glanced at him.
“Mr. Bell claims it was the grain. I suspect embarrassment.”
“Swans are proud.”
“You speak with authority.”
“I worked near a pond once.”
“That is extensive training.”
Oliver continued drinking.
The lamp crackled faintly as the oil settled. Beyond the window, wind pushed powdery snow against the glass.
Edmund’s gaze rested on the baby’s face. “Eleanor wanted him to have a blue nursery.”
Clara said nothing.
“I said cream would be easier to change when he grew older. She said that was the sort of thing a man said when he believed children arrived fully prepared for school.”
His voice had changed. It was still controlled, but no longer directed at Clara. He seemed to be speaking to the room, testing whether it would punish him for remembering something ordinary.
“She chose the chair,” he continued. “It arrived the wrong color. Too pale. She refused to send it back because the delivery men had carried it up three flights.”
“That sounds practical.”
“It was not. She felt sorry for furniture.”
Clara looked at the carved armrest beneath her hand.
Oliver stopped sucking. She lowered the bottle.
Edmund leaned forward. “Is something wrong?”
“He is resting.”
“He does that?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“As long as he needs.”
Edmund sat back, but his shoulders remained tense until Oliver resumed.
At the end of the feeding, Clara lifted the infant to her shoulder.
“Would you like to touch his hand?” she asked.
Edmund froze.
“Not hold him. Only his hand.”
He looked at the tiny fingers curled against Clara’s collar.
“No.”
“All right.”
She did not hide disappointment because she did not feel it. A refusal given honestly was more useful than agreement offered under pressure.
Edmund stood. At the doorway, he paused.
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Seven.”
He appeared at seven.
At noon, he came late but stayed.
At four, Oliver refused the first attempt and Edmund began to rise.
“Remain seated,” Clara said.
“He is distressed.”
“He is tired.”
“He was not crying before I came in.”
“He also was not hungry before the bottle arrived. Two events may happen together without one causing the other.”
Edmund looked offended by the logic, but he sat.
Oliver cried for six minutes. Clara held him, breathed, and did not rush. Edmund’s left foot tapped once against the floor, then stopped.
“Say something,” Clara told him.
“I have nothing to say.”
“Tell him what you ate for luncheon.”
Edmund stared.
“He will not criticize the menu.”
“I had soup.”
“What sort?”
“I do not know.”
“You ate it.”
“That does not imply attention.”
Clara waited.
“Leek,” he said finally. “Possibly potato. There were small green things.”
Oliver’s cry softened.
“Mrs. Finch says Cook is angry because no one praises the soup,” Edmund continued. “I suspect this is because no one can identify it.”
Clara’s mouth twitched.
“The bread was good,” he said. “Your grandmother would say that is because bread does not attempt surprise.”
“You know nothing about my grandmother.”
“No. Did she dislike surprise?”
“She disliked soup.”
A small sound escaped him.
Oliver opened his eyes.
Edmund’s expression changed so quickly that Clara almost missed it. Wonder arrived first, then grief, then fear of being seen in either.
The baby stared toward his voice.
“Continue,” Clara said quietly.
Edmund swallowed. “There was cheese. My mother complained it was too cold. Mrs. Finch said the room was too warm. They had the argument they have had every winter since I was twelve.”
Oliver’s mouth opened.
May you like
Clara offered the bottle.
He drank.
