Chapter 30
“You are holding the brush too tightly.”
Sophia watched from the doorway of the nursery as Edward sat at the small table, a paintbrush clutched in his fist like a weapon. Oliver perched beside him, his own brush moving with confident strokes across the paper.
“I am holding it the way one holds a brush.” Edward’s jaw tightened.
“You are holding it like you want to hurt it.” Oliver tilted his head. “Sophia says painting should be fun. You do not look like you are having fun.”
Edward glanced toward the doorway. His eyes met Sophia’s, and something flickered there. Uncertainty. A silent plea for help.
She crossed the room and kneeled beside him. “May I?”
He surrendered the brush. She adjusted his grip, her fingers sliding over his to reposition them. His hand was warm beneath hers, the knuckles still faintly scarred from his boxing. She felt him tense at the contact, felt the sharp intake of his breath.
“Loose.” She kept her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “Let the brush do the work.”
She released him and stepped back. Edward stared at the brush in his hand as though it had transformed into something foreign.
“Now paint something,” Oliver instructed. “Anything you want.”
Edward dipped the brush into blue paint and made a tentative stroke across the paper. Then another. His shoulders remained rigid, his movements careful and controlled.
“What is it?” Oliver squinted at the emerging shape.
“A sky.”
“It needs clouds.” Oliver grabbed the white paint and dabbed enthusiastic blobs across Edward’s careful blue. “There. Now it is a real sky.”
Edward blinked at the ruined composition. For a moment, Sophia feared he would retreat into coldness. Instead, his lips twitched.
“I suppose it does need clouds.”
Oliver beamed. Sophia caught Edward’s eye and smiled. He looked away first, but not before she glimpsed something warm and uncertain in his gaze.
Three days later, Sophia found them in the garden.
Oliver had discovered a family of hedgehogs beneath the rose bushes and insisted on showing his uncle. Edward crouched beside him, his expensive coat brushing the damp grass, his expression caught between fascination and discomfort.
“This one is the mother.” Oliver pointed with authority. “And those are her babies. Mrs. Palmer says we cannot touch them because the mother might get scared.”
“Mrs. Palmer is wise.” Edward peered at the creatures. “They are rather small.”
“They will grow.” Oliver looked up at him. “Did you have hedgehogs when you were little?”
Edward hesitated. Sophia watched from the garden path, close enough to hear but not close enough to intrude.
“We had rabbits.” Edward’s voice emerged rough. “Your father and I. We found a nest near the stables one spring. We watched them every day until they grew big enough to hop away.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Papa watched rabbits?”
“He did.” Edward cleared his throat. “He named them all. Ridiculous names. Whiskers and Buttons and Sir Hopsalot.”
Oliver giggled. The sound seemed to startle Edward, as though he had not expected his words to bring joy.
“Sir Hopsalot,” Oliver repeated the name with relish. “That’s a good name for a rabbit.”
“Your father thought so.”
Sophia felt her eyes sting. She turned away before either of them could see, but not before Edward caught her gaze. He held it for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them.
Then Oliver tugged at his sleeve, demanding to know more about the rabbits, and the moment passed.
A week after that, Edward read to Oliver at bedtime.
Sophia paused outside the nursery door, drawn by the low murmur of Edward’s voice. The book was the same one she had given Oliver months ago, the tale of Barnaby the rabbit who dreamed of adventure.
“And so, Barnaby set off into the forest,” Edward read, “his heart full of courage and his pockets full of acorns.”
“Why acorns?” Oliver’s voice was drowsy.
“For snacks, I imagine. Adventures make one hungry.”
“Papa used to read to me.” The words came out soft, heavy with sleep. “He did the voices.”
Silence fell. Sophia held her breath.
“I am not very good at voices.” Edward’s voice was rough. “But I can try.”
He continued reading, and this time, he gave Barnaby a squeaky, eager tone. The owl who offered directions spoke with pompous gravity. The fox who tried to trick Barnaby drawled with oily menace.
Oliver laughed, then yawned, then fell silent. Sophia peered through the crack in the door and saw the boy curled against Edward’s side, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even.
Edward did not move. He sat perfectly still, the book forgotten in his lap, staring down at the child nestled against him. His expression held something fragile and wondering, as though he could not quite believe what was happening.
His hand came up, hesitated, and then settled on Oliver’s hair. He stroked the soft curls once, twice, with a tenderness that made Sophia’s heart clench.
She stepped back from the door, her chest tight with emotion. When she turned, she nearly collided with Mrs. Palmer.
“Your Grace.” The nursemaid curtsied; her eyes bright. “I was just coming to check on them.”
“Let them be.” Sophia smiled despite the tears threatening to spill. “They need this.”
Three weeks after their wedding, Sophia stood in Edward’s study and voiced the request she had been rehearsing for days.
“I would like to visit my father.”
Edward looked up from his correspondence. “Of course. I will arrange for the carriage.”
“He is at our country home. In Sussex.” She twisted her hands in her skirts. “It is too far for a day trip. We would need to stay overnight.”
“Then I will come with you.” Edward set down his pen. “I should meet my father-in-law. It is long overdue.”
Sophia blinked. She had expected resistance, negotiation, and excuses about work. “You would do that?”
“He is your father.” Edward held her gaze. “Of course I would.”
Something warm unfurled in her chest. “Oliver should come as well. He has never met his grandfa— Erm, his…” She caught herself. “Well, he has never met my father.”
Edward nodded. If he noticed her stumble, he did not comment. “We will leave tomorrow.”
The journey to Sussex took most of the day.
Oliver pressed his face to the carriage window, exclaiming over every passing cow, every flock of sheep, every church spire that rose above the trees.
Sophia answered his questions and smiled at his enthusiasm.
Edward sat across from them, a book open in his lap, though his eyes strayed more often to the window than to the pages.
Once, when the carriage jolted over a rut, Sophia’s hand flew out to steady herself and landed on Edward’s knee. She snatched it back as though burned, her cheeks flushing. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, and said nothing.
The Brimsey estate was modest compared to Heatherwell Hall, but lovely in its own way. A manor house of warm stone nestled among rolling hills, surrounded by gardens that had clearly been tended with love.
Sophia’s father waited for them on the front steps.
Lord Brimsey was thinner than she remembered, his hair greyer, his frame supported by a wooden cane. But his eyes were bright as he watched the carriage approach, and his smile when Sophia emerged was radiant.
“My darling girl.” He opened his arms, and she went into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and old books.
“Papa.” She held him tight, mindful of his frailty. “I have missed you.”
“And I have missed you.” He pulled back to study her face. “Marriage agrees with you. You look well.”
Edward descended from the carriage; Oliver’s hand clasped in his. Lord Brimsey turned to face them, and something shifted in his expression. Recognition. Gratitude. The weight of debts paid and secrets kept.
“Your Grace.” He bowed as best he could with his cane. “I am honored to finally meet you.”
“The honor is mine, Lord Brimsey.” Edward’s voice held none of its usual stiffness. “Your daughter speaks of you often. And with great affection.”
Lord Brimsey’s eyes softened. “She is my pride and joy. Always has been.” His gaze dropped to Oliver. “And who is this fine young gentleman?”
Oliver stepped forward with his practiced bow. “I am Oliver Gray. I am four years old. And I have a horse named Thunder.”
“A horse!” Lord Brimsey’s eyebrows rose. “That is very impressive. I had a horse when I was your age. His name was Biscuit.”
“Biscuit?” Oliver giggled. “That is a funny name for a horse.”
“He was a funny horse.” Lord Brimsey winked. “Would you like to see the garden? There is a pond with fish in it. Very large fish.”
Oliver’s eyes went wide. He looked up at Edward for permission. Edward nodded, and the boy bounded forward to take Lord Brimsey’s free hand.
They walked together toward the garden, the old man leaning on his cane while the child chattered about Thunder and painting and the hedgehogs in the rose bushes. Lord Brimsey listened with patience and genuine interest, his responses drawing more stories from Oliver, more laughter, more trust.
Sophia watched them go; her heart full to bursting.
Edward stood beside her, silent. When she glanced at him, she found his expression strange. Soft and sad and yearning all at once.
“Edward?” She touched his arm. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head. “I never thought I would see this.” His voice emerged rough. “My father would never…” He stopped. Swallowed. “This is good. This is what Oliver deserves.”
Sophia’s fingers tightened on his arm. He looked down at her hand, then up at her face. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Oliver called out from the garden, demanding that they come see the enormous fish, and the moment was shattered.
Lady Brimsey arrived in the late afternoon, having traveled from London with her sister.