Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Greyson dismissed the footman with a curt nod, waiting until the door to his study clicked shut before he exhaled.
The house was quiet. Hazel was with her sisters. He had just come back from his mother’s, and she was resting, with that blissful smile of hers still there. And Jasper would not barge in until supper at least… hopefully.
It was the first true moment of solitude he’d had in days.
He crossed the study, not toward his desk or the decanter, but toward a small side table near the window. Several books lay stacked there, three newly returned from the Dowager’s townhouse. Their worn corners and smoothed edges betrayed years of tender, loving use.
Greyson stood over them. He hesitated.
Then he reached out and lifted the top book. It was thin, bound in faded blue linen. It was the very one Hazel had brought to his mother days ago, the one his mother herself had read from. The one—
He stopped the thought before it could tighten his chest.
Carrying it to his desk, he sat heavily, the single lamp casting a warm glow across the page as he opened the book to its beginning.
The faintest imprint of someone’s fingertip smudged the corner of the first chapter. Greyson pulled open the drawer beside him and removed a long-unused fountain pen. He tested the nib on a scrap of paper. His hand hovered above the margin.
He did not write anything. He read, not for plot or language, because he had no room in his mind for fiction now. He read for something far more elusive.
He turned a page. His mother had paused somewhere here when she would read it to him and his brother. He closed his eyes. A breathy whisper of his mother’s voice filled the room like magic.
Greyson’s throat tightened. He forced himself to breathe.
He turned to the next page. There, he lowered the pen and made a small mark.
It was almost nothing, just the smallest annotation a man could make while still admitting he needed to say something.
He paused, then added a second mark. Then, a few pages later, he added an entire line beneath a sentence that held no obvious meaning to anyone but him, his brother and his mother.
Greyson shut the book abruptly. His pulse was too loud. He pushed up from the desk and walked to the fireplace, bracing a hand against the mantel. The room felt too warm. He closed his eyes.
This was not a grand gesture. It was not meant to be. It was simply something he needed to do, something he did not yet have the courage to articulate aloud.
After a long moment, he returned to the desk, sat down and opened the book once more. His hand was steadier now. He turned to the page where his mother had looked up at him, for the first time in years. His pen touched the margin.
He wrote nothing flowery. He doubted he would know how to write something flowery if asked. No. These were just a few quiet strokes of ink; something that was simple, direct and unmistakably his.
When he finished, he closed the book gently and rested his hand on the cover. Looking at it, he felt like something was still missing. So, he crossed to the cabinet by the far wall, which was a place few people knew he used, for it held items he almost never needed.
Inside were practical things: sealing wax, spare quills, correspondence paper, plain ribbon.
He reached past all those.
His fingers brushed against a roll of pale cream wrapping paper, tucked neatly along the back. It was high quality, not ostentatious or gilded, just elegant and tasteful. Jasper had once teased him that only Greyson Thornhill could make even wrapping paper look judgmental.
He drew out the roll without expression. Placing the book on his desk, he carefully unrolled a sheet. He set a straight edge against it out of habit and trimmed it with a precision that would have satisfied any steward.
He laid the book at the center of the paper. For a moment, he simply looked at it. The linen cover was worn at the corners. The spine softened. The pages carried the faintest memory of his mother’s hands. It was not a new book. But Greyson felt that a gift did not need grandeur to be meaningful.
He folded the paper around the book in smooth, firm creases. He secured the last fold with wax, pressing his seal gently, only until the imprint caught. Then he reached for a ribbon. He tied it around the parcel with a single, neat knot.
The finished bundle looked elegant and restrained, much like him. Yet the knowledge of what lay inside made his chest tight. There was nothing on the outside to betray the truth of what he had done. There was no note, no flourish, no clue as to the intimacy hidden beneath the paper.
He preferred it that way.
Placing the wrapped book on the corner of his desk, he hesitated. His hand hovered above it for a long moment, his fingertips barely grazing the ribbon.
He could still put it away. He could still pretend he had never marked the margins. He could still protect himself from whatever Hazel might think when she discovered what he had done.
But he did not move it. Instead, he exhaled.
She would find it upon her return to her chamber. And perhaps she would understand. Or perhaps she would not.
But he had done it… for her, for his mother, for himself.
Hazel entered her chamber humming softly, which was a habit she hadn’t realized she’d developed since moving into Callbury Mansion. Her sisters’ visit had left her feeling lighter, and now, she moved with the buoyant ease of someone whose world had begun to knit itself back together.
She pushed the door closed behind her and then stopped.
There was a neatly wrapped parcel on her vanity table. Strangely enough, there was no note.
“Well,” she whispered to herself, “either fairies have taken up residence in the house, or…”
Her heart gave a foolish little flutter.
Greyson.
Who else would wrap something with such precision? Who else would leave it here, quiet and unannounced? Who else would think to place it somewhere she would find it at the end of the day?
She crossed the room, allowing her fingertips to brush the edges of the parcel. It was not heavy, nor large. A book, perhaps, or a stationery box. Or…
Hazel smiled to herself, feeling a bit like a child on Christmas morning.
She untied the ribbon carefully, savoring the soft pull of the silk. Then she unfolded the paper slowly at first, then with increasing excitement as the shape beneath became clear.
A book. A familiar one.
“Oh,” her breath caught.
It was the same volume she had brought to the Dowager days ago, the very book the Dowager had read from, whispering her way through each sentence with effort and pride.
“Did… did Her Grace send this?” Hazel murmured, lowering herself into the chair before the vanity.
The idea warmed her. Perhaps the Dowager wanted Hazel to read to her again or wanted Hazel to enjoy it herself. Hazel opened the first page. The soft rustle of paper filled the quiet room.
She smiled, imagining the Dowager’s trembling hands turning these very pages. Perhaps Greyson had carried it back from the townhouse after their visit. Perhaps he thought Hazel would appreciate having it. Or perhaps…
Her heart fluttered again. She intended to read the opening line, when something caught her eye. There was a thin, straight line beneath the first sentence. It was just a faint stroke of ink, barely visible unless one knew to look for it.
Hazel frowned softly.
“That wasn’t there before…”
And next to it, there was a small notation.
Mother always inhaled deeply before starting.
Hazel’s breath stilled.
Greyson wrote in the book.
Curiosity fluttered through her. Hazel turned the page slowly. And her heart squeezed. There was another line, and another notation.
Mother always slowed here.
Hazel’s vision blurred for a moment. She touched the words with trembling fingertips. Slowly and reverently, she turned the next page, only to find another note.
This was the line that made Damian laugh hardest. Mother acted it out… terribly.
A soft, startled laugh escaped Hazel. She pressed a hand to her lips, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He had written his brother’s name, without fear.
She turned the page again.
Mother whispered this part. She said voices carried at night.
Hazel exhaled shakily. She had never imagined Greyson as a boy curled beside his mother, listening to stories. She never pictured him laughing with his brother, or teasing their mother’s dramatic characters. He had never spoken of these things. He had never even hinted at them.
And yet here they were, written in the margins of a cherished book.
Hazel turned another page.
Damian memorized this passage. He recited it until Father begged him to stop.
Hazel smiled through the prickling in her eyes, and the next page offered a new insight.
Mother used a different voice for every character. It was dreadful. We loved it.
Hazel pressed her hand to her mouth, a laugh and a sob tangling in her throat. She could almost see it: the Dowager lively and unburdened, with her two little boys giggling uncontrollably.
She turned the page again.
This is where she always stopped reading. Too sad, she said. She’d make us skip ahead. Damian cheated and read it anyway.
Hazel wiped at her eyes. This wasn’t a gift. This was a memory he had trusted her with, a part of himself he had never spoken aloud. A childhood he rarely acknowledged now lay open on paper for her to understand. She could barely breathe through the onslaught of emotions swirling inside of her.
Page after page, the notes continued:
She used to kiss our heads right here.
Damian would try to read ahead, but stumbled over the words.
Mother laughed here. Every time.
We begged her to read this part twice.
Damian fell asleep on her lap on this very line.
Hazel swallowed hard. This book was the heart of a family she had never seen. Here was a mother before grief consumed her. Here was a brother before despair claimed him. And this was the childhood before everything shattered.
Greyson had shared it… with her.
Hazel turned another page and stilled. Near the end, the ink became slightly darker, as though he had hesitated before writing:
Hazel, this is the part she read most often. We used to say it was the safest place in the world. Now you know why this book matters.
Her hand flew to her heart. He had written her name, intertwining her fate with theirs. She closed the book carefully, holding it to her chest as though it were porcelain and might break if she breathed too hard.
Greyson had not given her a book. He had given her his childhood, his memories, his mother’s laughter, his brother’s joy. He had let her see the boy he once was, and now, the man who still grieved him.
Hazel pressed her forehead to the cover, feeling the tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“Oh… oh, Greyson…”
She had done her best trying to protect her heart, but it was too late, for she feared it belonged to him already.