Chapter Five
Henry fell asleep on the short ride home, his head tipped against Marcus’s arm. The boy’s small frame rose and fell with a steadier rhythm than usual. Marcus kept one hand braced around him, less to support the weight than to hold the moment in place.
By the time the carriage halted at Number Fifty-Nine, Henry’s breathing had settled into the deep cadence of true rest. Marcus lifted him carefully and carried him inside.
Jameson closed the door without comment, as though he understood that words might disturb whatever fragile peace the boy had found.
Marcus brought Henry upstairs and laid him in bed. He did not stir at first. Several moments later, his eyes fluttered open.
“Papa?”
“Yes, Henry. I’m here.”
Henry blinked once and slipped back into sleep. Marcus adjusted the blanket, smoothing it over his shoulders. The woolen dog sat beside him with its worn ear pressed against his cheek. The sight tightened Marcus’s throat more than any battlefield memory ever had.
He crossed to the window and drew the drapes back slightly. Afternoon light had softened into a pale haze. A carriage rolled along the far edge of the square. Children ran after a hoop along the walk, their voices rising and falling without urgency. Mothers called them back from the street.
Life moved with an ease he had not felt in years.
Henry murmured something in his sleep. Marcus turned from the window at once. Whatever sound the boy made, it was not fear. Not the sharp, panicked cries that had torn through nights in France and again in London. The difference was slight, but unmistakable.
Marcus left the door open as he stepped into the corridor, a habit formed long before France and hardened in the years after. He descended to the morning parlor. The room lay empty, the fire low, the hush of the house spreading around him like something cautiously hopeful.
He removed his coat and gloves and set them on the small table near the door. For a moment, he stood without moving, letting his thoughts settle into something he could hold.
Henry had listened.
Henry had followed.
Henry had taken a step that was small to the world, and enormous against the last two years.
The boy wanted music.
Marcus lowered himself into a chair and braced his elbows on his knees. It had been a long time since anything had reached him through the fog of duty, guilt, and the remnants of war. Longer still since he had allowed it to.
He felt it now. A faint, unmistakable pull.
Miss Edgewood.
Her voice carried a quiet certainty. Not forceful. Not overly sympathetic. As though she believed in Henry’s strength before either of them could see it clearly. As though she believed in a future Marcus had not permitted himself to imagine.
A tap sounded against the doorframe.
Richard stepped in without waiting for an invitation. “Theseus sent word. You are back.” His gaze moved over Marcus’s face with the same precision he once brought to maps and battle reports. “How did he fare?”
Marcus let out a slow breath. “Better than I hoped.”
“That is a rare admission for you.”
Marcus did not respond to the remark. “The music helped him. Or perhaps it was her.”
Richard took the opposite chair. “Tell me.”
Marcus hesitated, not from reluctance, but because the memory felt delicate, as though speaking it aloud might disturb the careful work that had begun. Still, he answered.
“She understands him,” he said. “Not fully. No one can yet. But enough to meet him where he is, rather than where the world insists he ought to be.”
Richard’s expression softened. “And you?”
“I did nothing.”
“You brought him there.”
Marcus glanced toward the hall. “I am afraid of hoping,” he admitted quietly. “I know how easily it can break.”
“Hope does not break,” Richard said. “People do. And they mend.”
Marcus stared into the fire and let the words remain where they fell.
Jameson stood in the doorway. “My lord, Mrs. Dove-Lyon has sent a note. She asks whether tomorrow’s hour should remain the same.”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “Tell Theseus it will.”
Jameson inclined his head and withdrew.
The fire snapped softly. Richard rose. “I will leave you to your thoughts.”
Marcus did not stop him. When silence returned, it no longer pressed. It felt like something settling into place.
After a time, he went upstairs and paused at Henry’s door. The boy slept on, his face relaxed, the blanket rising and falling with each breath. Marcus stepped inside and sat beside him.
He touched the worn fabric of the woolen dog, remembering the day Grace had stitched it, laughing when she admitted the ears had come out uneven. Henry had carried it everywhere since.
She would have known what to do.
Marcus drew a careful breath.
He could not be Grace. But he could be present. He could learn. He could try.
He crossed once more to the window. Afternoon had slipped into early dusk. Lamps along Grosvenor Square began to glow, their soft light catching on iron railings and bare branches.
Henry shifted and settled again.
Marcus watched the square until the last of the light faded. Then he stepped away and drew the door partway closed as he left. Not shut. Never shut. Just enough to let a small boy breathe easily in the dark, and enough for a father to hear him if he called.
Marcus descended the stairs with a different certainty in his step.