Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
Alexander
T he morning sunlight filtered through the tall, mullioned windows of the breakfast room, casting a soft, golden glow over the polished oak table. Young Eammon was perched upon a chair a trifle too tall for him, his feet swinging idly beneath as he endeavored to saw through a crusty roll. Crumbs scattered across the linen cloth with every movement, and a smudge of butter adorned his cheek. Nearby, the lemon curd threatened to slip perilously close to the table's edge.
Lydia, seated beside him, watched with quiet patience. “No, darling, not quite so,” she murmured, her voice gentle and melodic. She leaned in, steadying the roll under his hand. “Here, you must hold it firm and let the knife do its work.” With graceful precision, she cut the roll cleanly in two, spread it with butter, and finished it with a generous spoonful of curd. Passing it back to him, she added, “Now, is that not simpler?”
Eammon’s face lit up as he accepted the perfected roll. “Thank you, Lydia,” he said, the title falling from his lips with an ease that brought a soft smile to her face. Reaching out, she brushed away a crumb that clung to his curls before turning back to her plate.
“Can I try cutting yours?”
“Of course, but carefully,” she said.
At the doorway, Alexander paused, unnoticed. His gaze softened as he took in the scene before him. There was an unexpected serenity in the room—the warmth of the sunlight, the unhurried rhythm of breakfast, and the gentle bond forming between his new wife and the boy who looked to her as though she had always been his guiding star. It was an unusual family, a mended thing of sorts, patched together by fate and necessity, but in that moment, he would not have wished it otherwise.
Eammon spotted him first, and his small face lit up. “Your Grace!” he called, his sticky hands waving hesitantly.
Lydia glanced up then, her gaze meeting Alexander’s. A smile bloomed on her lips—not the rehearsed kind reserved for the eyes of society, but something softer, untouched by artifice. It caught him unawares, sending a warmth through him that even the sunlight could not rival.
Alexander stepped forward and took his seat opposite them, his shoulders easing as he absorbed the cheerful chaos of their morning meal. “Good morning,” he greeted, inclining his head toward Lydia.
“Good morning,” she replied, her tone warm, her eyes still lingering on him.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Eammon echoed dutifully, though his attention was already fixed back on his plate and the prospect of another attempt at wielding his knife.
Alexander surveyed them with quiet satisfaction before asking, “And how did you sleep, my dear?”
Lydia tilted her head ever so slightly, her countenance tranquil. “Quite well, thank you.”
“And you, Eammon?” Alexander turned his attention to the boy, who had finally succeeded in cutting Lydia’s roll, albeit leaving a cascade of crumbs in his wake.
The boy hesitated, cheeks faintly flushed. “I had a nightmare,” he admitted in a small voice, though it brightened almost instantly. “But I stayed in my bed, and I wasn’t afraid. I told myself the story Lydia told me about the angels.”
“Angels?” Alexander inquired, his brows lifting ever so slightly.
Eammon nodded, his enthusiasm returning. “Yes, the two angels who watch over me—my mama and daid. Lydia said they keep all the bad things away so I do not have to be frightened.”
Alexander glanced toward Lydia. She said nothing, but there was a light in her eyes, something reverent and tender as she gazed at Eammon. A moment later, she looked toward Alexander, and their eyes met once more.
“You told yourself the story, did you?” Alexander asked gently, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table.
“I did, Your Grace,” Eammon replied proudly. “It worked! The bad dreams didn’t feel scary after that.”
Alexander chuckled softly, reaching across to tousle the boy’s curls. “Well done, my boy,” he said, his voice carrying a note of approval.
“He is brave,” Lydia said, a flicker of pride warming her expression as she watched Eammon’s renewed efforts with his butter knife.
“Brave and resourceful,” Alexander agreed, letting his gaze rest on her for a lingering moment. “Two qualities that shall serve him well in life.”
Their eyes locked once again, and unspoken understanding passed between them. This, though unconventional, was their family—a bond forged not by blood but by choice and care. He couldn’t deny that their dance the previous night – the entire ball in fact – had changed something within him. He could not deny it anymore. He wanted Lydia to be his wife. His true wife, not only in name.
Eammon’s youthful voice broke the moment as he exclaimed, “Look, Lydia, I did it properly this time! Butter and curd and none on my attire.”
She turned back to him with a radiant smile. “You did, well done!” she said, leaning in once more to admire his work.
The trio settled into a comfortable breakfast, with the sort of chatter that was most ordinary and yet extraordinary because he had never thought it possible.
As Eammon leaned forward to pick at his food, he glanced at Alexander.
“I can cut your roll, Your Grace.”
“You know, Eammon, there’s no need for such formality. Perhaps you might call me Alexander instead.”
Eammon’s small face tilted upward, the suggestion catching him off guard. Then, a wide grin spread across his face. “That’s what Daid always called you,” he said with quiet delight, his voice growing soft as if the memory required reverence.
Alexander’s chest tightened. “That’s right. And it seems only fair that his son calls me Alexander as well,” he said warmly, his tone gentle but steady. “I had hoped we could be friends.”
“Friends?” Eammon asked.
“Indeed, the sort that go for walks and rides and such,” Alexander said.
“Today?” Eammon exclaimed. Alexander blinked, aware he had opened this door and now must be prepared to march through it.
Lydia glanced up, her lips curving in a soft, approving smile, but she said nothing.
Shifting slightly, she set down her teacup. “It is convenient you should mention it this day. For it is my twin sisters’ birthday today,” she remarked conversationally, smoothing the edge of her napkin.
Eammon perked up. “Two people with the same birthday?” he asked, his small brow furrowed in amazement.
Lydia chuckled. “Yes, indeed. That’s because they’re twins. It’s why they look alike.”
“Will you see your sisters today?” Alexander asked, cutting himself a neat slice of ham and buttering a roll.
“I shall not be able to,” Lydia said. “I gave Miss Murphy the day off. She wished to visit town and meet a friend.” She paused, adjusting her napkin as she glanced toward Eammon.
“What a shame. Could you not take Eammon with you?” Alexander suggested.
“I should think it will be dreadfully boring for him. My sisters are hosting a little gathering—a tea, likely accompanied by lace-making or embroidery, I imagine,” she added with a note of dry humor, her tone clearly meant for Alexander rather than Eammon.
The boy made a face, his knife clattering against his plate. “Ugh! Lace-making? That sounds dreadful indeed.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Lydia teased lightly, her expression bemused as she smoothed her skirts. “I fear it is a birthday activity better suited to young ladies than young gentlemen.”
“I do not wish for you to miss out on the day with your sisters,” Alexander said and then frowned slightly. Without fully thinking, he said, “Eammon and I can entertain ourselves while you are away.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Eammon looked up sharply, his spoon poised midway between his bowl and his mouth. “Can we?” he asked, his voice a mixture of curiosity and glee.
Lydia blinked, surprise evident in her expression. “Can you?” she echoed, her tone both amused and skeptical as her gaze shifted to Alexander.
He chuckled nervously, as though realizing only now what he had volunteered for. But there was no retreat. “Certainly,” he said, affecting a confidence he didn’t quite feel. “There’s much a duke and his ward can manage in the course of a day.”
Eammon’s face lit up like a lantern, though it was tinged with the faintest note of disbelief, as though he wondered what on earth Alexander meant to do.
“Well,” Lydia said with a faint smile, clearly still bemused by the offer. “I shan’t be long. My sisters will have enough conversation and tea to tire themselves out long before evening.”
Alexander nodded magnanimously. “Take your time, Lydia,” he replied smoothly. “We’ll find plenty to occupy us.” He turned to Eammon and gave him a reassuring pat on the back, though the boy twisted to look up at him, an uncertain gleam in his bright eyes.
“Plenty,” Alexander repeated, more to convince himself than anyone else. Eammon still gazed at him, equal parts hopeful and dubious, while Alexander smiled, projecting the composure of a man who was certain of everything—and yet, inside, couldn’t fathom what he had just gotten himself into.
The door clicked softly behind Lydia as she departed, and Alexander found himself standing alone in the hallway, suddenly bereft of the soothing rhythm she brought to the household. He cleared his throat, then his mind, yet neither act brought him any closer to a plan. What did little boys like to do? His own childhood offered little insight; it had been one of discipline and duty, far removed from puzzles or playthings. His mother had often given him toys or taken him riding behind his father’s back, so perhaps Eammon would enjoy those?
With a sigh, Alexander wandered the length of the hall, his polished boots tapping against the floorboards. He paused to look at a portrait of some ancestor or other, his hand brushing the gilded frame as though the ghost of a duke past might offer a suggestion. It was foolish to stall; Lydia would be gone for hours. But the truth was unavoidable: he had no idea how to occupy a boy like Eammon for even a morning.
The minutes dragged, and with mounting apprehension, Alexander began his slow ascent of the staircase. His footfalls echoed in the empty house, a staccato beat that matched his jangling nerves. At the landing, he hesitated, gripping the rail as though weighing his options might buy him more time. Procrastination was useless, he knew, but for a man who had steered estates and faced down political adversaries, the prospect of spending a day with a seven-year-old felt curiously daunting.
Finally, he reached Eammon’s room. The door was ajar, revealing a small, sunlit space adorned with shelves of books and trinkets—a quiet haven suited to the thoughtful boy who lived there. Not that it had been this way when he arrived. Lydia had turned it into a sanctuary for the child, not he.
Through the gap, Alexander saw Eammon seated cross-legged on the floor, a wooden puzzle spread before him in a neat, deliberate scatter of pieces. He was bent intently over it, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Well, then. Puzzles. That was manageable, wasn’t it? Alexander smoothed a hand down his waistcoat, willing a calm he didn’t quite feel. He knocked gently against the doorframe.
Eammon’s head shot up at the sound. “Your Grace! I mean Alexander!” he chirped, a mix of excitement and politeness that made Alexander’s chest tighten. The boy scrambled to his feet, holding up a piece of the puzzle triumphantly. “It’s the pyramids!”
Alexander stepped into the room, marveling despite himself at the intricate details of the wooden pieces. “The pyramids of Egypt,” he said with faint surprise, crouching to get a better look at the half-assembled scene on the floor.
“Don't you find the pyramid quite boring?” Alexander asked, his tone both thoughtful and teasing. He had recalled a conversation he’d had with Lydia only days earlier. She had voiced her concern about his attempts to teach little Eammon about Greek and Egyptian culture, deeming the lessons far too advanced for a child his age.
Alexander considered this as he glanced at the pieces of the puzzle scattered before them on the floor. It was true his own father had instilled such knowledge in him when he was Eammon's age, but he wasn’t sure if the same methods were fitting for this boy, his newfound charge.
Eamon glanced at him, brow furrowed in determination, his small finger pointing to the triangular shape of the puzzle's pyramid. “I find all their gods very confusing,” the boy admitted. “But I like the structure,” he said, smiling slightly as he focused on his pile of pieces. “And the face,” he added, frustration rising in his voice as his small hands fumbled for the right piece. “But I can’t find it,” he said, pointing to the pyramid.
“Well, do you think I can help you?” Alexander asked, bending down a little.
Eammon looked up at him, and with a solemn nod, answered, “Yes. Will it be done today if you help me?”
“We can only try our best, I say,” Alexander chuckled and pulled up his pants, squatting down beside the boy. He shifted, sitting sideways with one leg awkwardly crossed over the other, his focus entirely on the puzzle as Eammon eagerly watched him.
“Why don’t you lie on your tummy like I am? It’s much easier,” Eammon suggested with a thoughtful tilt to his head, clearly not understanding the delicate situation.
Alexander considered this, shaking his head with a smile. “I don’t think that’s very dignified for a duke, is it?”
The little boy, no more than five, furrowed his brows again, scrunching his nose. “Should I sit up, then?”
“There is no need to sit up,” Alexander reassured, his voice kind and gentle. “You are just a boy.”
“But you said I’ll be a gentleman one day.”
Alexander scratched his temple thoughtfully. “Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” he mused. “But it’s been pointed out to me that for now, you are still very much a boy. Not yet a young man.” He paused, his expression softening as he patted the boy gently on the head. “You should enjoy being a child for now. It’s what your parents would have wanted.”
A look of wistfulness crossed Eammon's face, and he bit his lip. “I miss them,” he whispered, his voice small but filled with an aching innocence that touched Alexander's heart more than he expected.
“I do too,” Alexander said quietly, his throat tightening slightly. “You know, your father was my very best friend in the whole world.”
Eammon’s eyes brightened slightly as he looked up at him. “You were his best friend?” he repeated, a little more animated now.
“I was,” Alexander confirmed with a soft smile. “And I missed him very much.”
Eammon nodded solemnly, the memory of his parents’ words clearly dear to him. “They said we might come here and live here on your estate.”
Alexander froze for a moment, surprise written plainly on his face. “They said that?”
“Really and truly,” Eammon answered in a tone so earnest that it drew a small chuckle from Alexander.
Alexander’s stomach clenched. “Your mother always said that when she was serious about something,” Eammon continued, his eyes alight. “Whenever she was serious, she'd say, ‘Really and truly.’”
Alexander leaned back, a warm smile crossing his face. He'd never forget those perfect moments spent with his dearest friends, John and his wife. The bittersweet thought of them, now gone, tightened in his chest.
“That would have been mighty fine,” he said quietly, though the weight in his heart grew heavier. “If they had come to live here, I think they would’ve been very happy here with you. It’s a shame, isn't it?” He sighed deeply, shaking his head. “But at least you're here now.”
Eammon, who had been silently absorbing every word, turned those bright brown eyes up to Alexander once more. “Are you happy I’m here, Alexander?” he asked in a small, curious voice, clearly still uncertain of how to address him.
Alexander’s face softened, his regret stirring anew over the mix-up he'd created with his formal titles. The boy had yet to adjust to his position and no longer required constant formality.
“I am very, very happy you are here,” Alexander reassured him earnestly, pressing his hand gently to the boy's shoulder. “I might not be like your mother and father…” His words trailed off as he thought of the warm, loving parents Eamon had lost. “But, my boy, I hope I can at least be your friend.”
Eammon’s gaze flickered over Alexander's face, a hesitant smile playing at the corners of his lips. The warmth of it did much to melt Alexander’s heart, though he realized he would never replace the family Eamon had lost.
“Well, shall we get on with the puzzle?” Alexander suggested lightly, wanting to shift the conversation back to safer ground.
“Yes,” Eammon agreed eagerly, picking up another piece and inspecting it. He glanced at the pieces before pointing one out. “I think this goes over there in the sky... because there’s a bird.”
Alexander, returning to the task, agreed, “I think you’re absolutely right.”
They continued to work together on the puzzle for nearly an hour, with Eammon growing tired and rolling onto his back. “I’m spent,” he declared, his voice full of dramatic exhaustion.
Alexander chuckled lightly. “I suppose we’ll have to strengthen ourselves then. How about some hot drinking chocolate and perhaps a piece of cake?”
Eammon’s face lit up at the suggestion. “Yes! Let’s!”
Alexander stood by the great oak table, watching as the cook bustled about, pouring thick, velvety hot chocolate into three sturdy mugs. The scent was rich, familiar—bringing with it a memory so vivid he could almost feel the warmth of a long-lost fire at his back.
He took the mugs carefully, nodding his thanks before making his way back through the dimly lit halls. Eammon was waiting for him, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat curled on the stone steps outside. The night air was crisp, but not biting, and the sky stretched vast and dark above them, peppered with stars.
Alexander lowered himself onto the step beside the boy, handing him a mug. "Here," he said, his voice quieter than usual.
Eammon took it with both hands, blowing over the surface before taking a cautious sip. Almost instantly, he let out a small sigh of contentment. "It's good," he murmured, his feet swinging idly above the ground.
Alexander smiled faintly, lifting his own mug but not drinking just yet. Instead, he watched the steam curl into the night air, his mind drifting backward.
"Maebh made the best hot chocolate," he said after a moment, his tone distant. "John and I would sit in her kitchen just like this, drinking it while she scolded us for tracking mud inside."
Eammon looked up at him then, his face momentarily brightening at the mention of his mother. But after a few seconds, his expression faltered. He stared down at his drink, brow furrowing.
"Sometimes I can't remember her face," he admitted, his voice small. "I try really hard, but it's like... it's slipping away."
Alexander stilled. Something inside him tightened at the quiet confession. He understood it too well—the fear of losing the shape of someone’s face, the sound of their voice, until all that remained was an aching absence.
Carefully, he reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. "That happens sometimes," he said, his voice gentler than usual. "But I have a portrait of her. Of all of us. It’s in my house in Ireland. I’ll have it brought down."
Eammon’s head snapped up. "Really?"
"Really," Alexander confirmed.
The boy exhaled, visibly relieved, but there was still a sadness lingering in his eyes. He swirled the remains of his drink, watching the liquid move, the weight of his grief still clinging to him.
Alexander observed him for a long moment, then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, set his mug down and stood.
"We should go riding," he announced.
Eammon blinked. "Now?"
"Tomorrow," Alexander amended. "First thing in the morning. There's a pony in the stable—small enough for you."
At that, Eammon straightened, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. "Really? A real pony?"
Alexander chuckled. "Yes, a real pony."
The boy practically beamed, some of his sorrow momentarily forgotten. He took another quick sip of his hot chocolate before looking up at Alexander with newfound excitement.
"Can I name him?"
Alexander smirked. "He already has a name."
Eammon considered this. "But if I don't like it, can I call him something else?"
Alexander exhaled a quiet laugh. "We'll see."
Eammon grinned, clearly taking that as a yes.
And as they sat together beneath the open sky, the warmth of their drinks in their hands, Alexander found himself thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, he was beginning to understand what it meant to be someone's guardian.