Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“It’s all right, my dears,” Imogen whispered, her voice a soft, rhythmic lullaby. “It is all right to miss them. It is all right to feel as though the world is too big and too cold today. Crying doesn’t make you weak. It just means you have a heart that loves very well. I know what it feels like…”
The schoolroom was dimly lit, the only sound the ragged, hitching sobs of two broken-hearted boys. Imogen sat on the low divan with her arms wrapped tightly around both twins while Ambrose watched quietly from the shadows of the hallway.
Philip’s face was buried in the crook of her neck, his tears dampening her green wool dress, while Arthur leaned against her shoulder, his silence shaking even more heartbreaking than his brother’s cries.
“You do?” Arthur asked, his eyes wide as he looked up at her.
“I do, my dear,” she said softly, as she began to sing a lullaby.
She smoothed Philip’s hair, her touch steady and sure. Slowly, the frantic gasps slowed. The heavy tension in Arthur’s small frame began to bleed away, and his body relaxed.
Imogen gave the boys one final, lingering squeeze. “Arthur, would you be so kind as to find that book about the constellations? The one with silver ink? Start reading the first page aloud to Philip. I need to speak with Mrs. Higgins for a moment, and I shall be right back.”
Arthur wiped his eyes with his sleeve and nodded. As his small, shaky voice began to drone out the names of stars, Imogen slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
Ambrose didn’t move as she approached him. He looked down at his boots, a long, weary sigh escaping him.
“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice barely a rasp. “How do you calm them so easily? They were ready to tear the house down minutes ago.”
“Children are just little people, Your Grace,” Imogen said, leaning back against the doorframe.
“They are not some fantastical, unreachable beasts. They have the same hearts as we do, only they lack the armor we’ve spent years building around us.
They need to be heard, to be understood.
They need to know that even the unpleasant feelings, the anger and the grief of profound loss, are allowed to exist.”
“I told them to move on,” Ambrose muttered, his jaw tight as he ran his hand along his beard. “I thought it would help. I thought if we didn’t look back, they wouldn’t fall. This is new to me, Miss Lewis.”
“You dismissed their sadness,” she said, her sharp green eyes meeting his. “And by doing so, you made yourself a stranger to their pain. They don’t feel comfortable around you because they think you don’t care.”
Ambrose sighed heavily. “I have no idea how to approach them. Every time I try, they act out, or they bring up Thomas, and I…” He trailed off, unable to finish.
“You are the only family they have left,” Imogen stepped closer. “You are their only anchor in this world, which they feel is set against them like a stormy sea. But right now, instead of providing emotional security, you are tossing them into the storm alone and wondering why they’re drowning.”
Ambrose stared at her intensely, trying to read her expression and failing. “How did you become so wise? Did someone toss you out into the storm alone?”
Imogen froze. “I have seen enough to know what loneliness feels like,” she whispered. She cleared her expression and looked back at him. “Come inside with me.”
“No.” Ambrose hesitated, stepping back. “I’ll only make it worse.”
“You won’t. I am right here. Come. This is what you are paying me for, is it not?”
She opened the door and led him in. The boys shriveled instantly, Philip ducking his head behind the book. Imogen placed a hand on Ambrose’s arm, a brief, daring contact that he leaned into, and guided him to a chair near the boys.
“Your uncle has something he’d like to say,” Miss Lewis said, creating a bridge where there had been an abyss. “Set the book down, dears.”
The silence was agonizing as they all awaited what would come next. Ambrose looked at the two boys, then at their governess. She gave him a small, encouraging nod.
“I…” Ambrose started, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “I’m also sad. I miss your papa quite a lot. Every day. He was so very dear to me.”
“You…” Arthur looked up, his eyes wide. “You do?”
“I do. I suppose… I didn’t want you to be sad, so I tried to hide my own heartache.
But that was a mistake.” Ambrose leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
“I loved your father. Very much. And when I look at you, Arthur, I see the way he used to hold his head when his mind was set. And Philip, you have his bright blue eyes.”
Ambrose sank slowly onto the edge of a low stool, his heavy velvet coat bunching at his sides. He didn’t look at the boys directly yet; instead, he stared at his own hands, as if searching for a memory buried beneath his skin.
“My brother, your father, was the finest climber in the county,” Ambrose began, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic cadence that drew the boys’ eyes like a magnet. “But he was a terrible liar. Absolutely hopeless.”
Arthur turned slightly, his jaw still tight, but his curiosity winning out. “Papa said you were the one who always got into trouble!”
“He was half-right,” Ambrose said with a faint, bittersweet ghost of a smile. “He was always arguing with our father, and I would step in to help him out of trouble…”
“What did you and your brother do for fun, Your Grace?” Miss Lewis interjected, redirecting his speech.
“I was the one who planned the raids, as the eldest,” Ambrose began, gaining confidence from her encouragement.
“But he was the one who carried them out. I remember one August, the heat was so thick you could taste the dust in London. The cook, old Mrs. Gibbons, now she was a woman with a temper, had just received a crate of Ribston Pippins. The finest apples in the orchard are early for the season.”
Philip lifted his head from his knees, his tear-streaked face illuminated by the firelight. “Oh! Did you steal them?”
“We didn’t just steal them, Philip. We waged a campaign,” Ambrose said, his eyes brightening.
“I distracted her by releasing a jar of crickets in the pantry. While she was shrieking and batting at her skirts, your father scaled the window. He filled his tunic so full of apples that he looked like a lumpy sack of flour. We ran until our lungs burned, all the way to the old hayloft.”
He chuckled, a dry, rusty sound that reminded him of how long it had been since he had let himself reminisce in this manner.
“We spent three hours up there, hidden in the sweet-smelling hay, eating until our stomachs ached. Your father tried to juggle three of those apples to impress me, but he dropped two through the floorboards right onto the stable master’s head!”
“Oh, my goodness,” Miss Lewis said, laughing hard.
“We had to stay silent for an hour, buried under the straw, praying the man wouldn’t look up. I could feel your father shaking next to me, trying so hard not to laugh that he turned the color of a beet.”
The boys were enraptured. Arthur had drifted closer to Ambrose, his hand resting on his knee, his expression softening from jagged anger into a fragile, searching wonder.
Ambrose observed how Imogen watched from the shadows of the doorway.
“He kept the last apple,” Ambrose whispered, his voice thick. “He said he was saving it for later, but he ended up giving it to a carriage horse that looked particularly tired. That was your father. He couldn’t keep a prize if someone else needed it more.”
Philip climbed off the window seat and took a small, hesitant step toward Ambrose. “Do you think the hayloft is still there? At your old home, Uncle Ambrose?”
Ambrose looked at the small boy, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away.
He reached out, his hand hovering before settling gently on Philip’s shoulder.
“I am sure it is. And, when the sun is up, we might go see if we can find any apples left in the orchard. I am sure the new owners would oblige a visit.”
“Can you tell us another story, Uncle Ambrose?” Philip asked, his appetite for his family’s history suddenly ravenous.
He looked so much like Ambrose’s brother. The likeness was unsettling. It made the Duke want things he had learned not to want—to speak of family, of before—and the ache that followed was reason enough to keep his distance.
“Perhaps after you get ready for bedtime,” Miss Lewis intervened, stepping forward with a smile. “Then you can say goodnight, as I think a certain Uncle Morgan is still downstairs wondering if he’s been forgotten.”
The boys nodded, their spirits visibly lifted. As they began to chatter about the apple story, Imogen guided Ambrose toward the door.
“Thank you,” he said, stopping in the hallway. He looked back at the room, then at her.
“You did well, Your Grace,” she murmured. “Go to your guest. I’ll see them readied and brought down for a proper goodbye and a glass of warm milk before bed.”
Ambrose waved a dismissive hand. “Morgan won’t mind the wait. He’s likely found my best brandy by now.”
He just looked at her then, his gaze lingering on her lips before returning to her sharp eyes that saw everything.
It was a quiet, intense look that felt like a promise and a confession all at once.
He’d had dalliances with beautiful women, but no one compared to the vision of loveliness in front of him now. Miss Lewis mystified him.
I cannot do this…
“I will have milk and bread sent up so they go to bed full. No need to come down.” He cleared his throat, the Duke returning to his post.
“Are you sure?” She asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Yes. Carry on, Miss Lewis.”