Chapter 12 #2
Clara’s mouth curved in a grudging smile, and she nodded. “Ruined with ink is best. But I will try it. For you.”
Nancy helped Clara out of her day dress and into the beloved, threadbare nightdress, careful with the buttons, gentler still with the sleeves. She did the same for Henry, who submitted without protest, except for a single request: “Will you tell us a story?”
Nancy sat on the edge of the bed, the children pressing in on either side, and considered her options. “Very well,” she said. “But only if you promise to close your eyes at the end, and not open them again until the sun is up.”
Clara negotiated: “Only if you promise the story will not be boring.”
Henry’s chin trembled, but he said, “And not sad.”
Nancy thought for a moment. Then she reached for Clara’s hairbrush and began the gentle, ceremonial untangling, her hands steadier than she felt.
“Once, there was a small elf who lived at the edge of a very large forest,” she began. “The elf was smaller than even the tiniest mouse, and everyone in the village said he was too small to be brave.”
Clara settled under the brush, listening with rapt suspicion. Henry snuggled in close, his head on Nancy’s lap.
“The little elf wanted nothing more than to join the hunt for the dragon that had been stealing sheep. But the other elves laughed and said, ‘Go home, little one. The dragon will eat you up before you even see it coming.’”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Did he go anyway?”
Nancy nodded, drawing the brush through a particularly stubborn knot. “Of course he did. He packed a bag of bread and cheese and set out alone.”
Henry’s voice was muffled. “Was he afraid?”
“Terribly afraid,” Nancy said. “But he kept walking, even when the forest grew dark and the shadows looked like claws.”
She continued the tale of the elf’s clever tricks. “He became friends with a rather clever fox.”
“What was the fox’s name?” Clara interrupted.
“The fox is called Liam the Sly.”
Henry giggled at that, and Nancy continued the tale, “One day, a dragon emerged in the village.”
Clara gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. “Did the dragon eat anyone?”
Nancy had to laugh at that, but she shook her head. “Everyone was afraid of this vicious dragon, but instead of slaying it, the little elf offered it bread and cheese, and in doing so, convinced it to leave the village alone.”
“Impressive!” Henry grinned. “I want to do that and become a knight.”
“You shall, my little one.” Nancy ruffled his hair. She continued the story, welcoming more interruptions from the children, but by the end, the twins leaned against Nancy with their eyes at half-mast.
She closed: “And so the elf, who had been afraid, became the bravest of all, because he learned that being brave means doing the right thing even when your heart is shaking.”
There was a silence, softer than the down on Clara’s pillow.
“Did the elf ever get to go home?” Henry asked, not opening his eyes.
Nancy thought of Teresa, of the smallness and sadness of the world when you lost your place in it. “Yes,” she said. “He went home, and everyone in the village was very proud.”
Clara yawned, dropping her head onto her folded arms. “I like that story,” she said, but it came out slurry and fading.
Nancy set the brush aside, smoothed the blankets over both children, and sat for a moment in the hush.
She was about to leave when a quiet knock sounded at the open door.
Oscar stood at the threshold, shoulders filling the space.
His waistcoat was the same midnight blue as the wedding, but the cravat was gone, and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.
He looked tired, but there was something else—something almost uncertain—in the set of his jaw.
Nancy blushed. It was absurd, she knew, to blush at a man who had spent the afternoon legally binding himself to her, but there it was: a slow burn rising up her neck. She turned away, busying herself with the hairbrush, though he stood half a room away.
Oscar cleared his throat, and the children snapped alert. Henry’s eyes darted to Oscar, then dropped. Clara sat up, the sleep gone from her face.
Oscar didn’t enter. He kept one hand on the door frame, the other in his pocket. “Good night, children.”
Clara stared at him. “Good night, Your Grace.”
Henry echoed, softer, “Good night.”
Oscar’s gaze lingered on Nancy, unreadable. “Good night, Duchess,” he said, and then he was gone.
The silence in his wake was colossal.
Nancy stared at the brush in her hand, turning it over once, twice.
Clara, already halfway to sleep again, muttered, “He always leaves so fast.”
Henry, voice almost a whisper: “Why does the Duke not like being with us?”
Nancy’s heart pinched. She tucked them both in, kissed their hair, and whispered, “He does like being with you. He just isn’t very good at it yet.”
Henry’s eyes blinked up at her, desperate for confirmation. “Will you stay? Until I sleep?”
Nancy nodded, squeezing his hand. “Of course.”
She waited until they both drifted off, breath slow and even, before slipping away, her own heart full of a dragon’s worth of ache.
She padded down the empty hallway, past the closed door of the study, and paused just out of sight, bracing herself against the wall. Oscar’s voice, echoing in her memory: I already have an heir. Henry.
If the boy was to be the Duke’s heir, then the two must form a cordial relationship.
Something must change. I must insist upon it.