Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Daisy was soon tired. The sun was hot, and she was thirsty. She exhorted Harry to stop playing so they could drink their ratafia before the drinks became warm. Harry was amenable, and they sat on the grass, side by side, drinking from their glasses.
Harry turned to look at her with an enquiring look on his face.
“What is it?” she asked with a smile.
“Nothing. It was only that I wondered about…”
“About what?”
“About your mother. Where is she? I’ve only seen your father around.”
Daisy bristled for a moment. “Well, that is because my mother is no longer with us.”
“Where is she?”
“Well… she unfortunately passed a few years ago.”
“Oh.” Harry seemed to think about this for a while. “My mother died too.”
Daisy swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat.
She knew full well what it meant to lose a mother.
Harry was lucky. At least his father was still trying to be a parent.
She flicked a glance at him, an unexpected understanding filling her.
He had a lot on his plate, raising a child alone.
He must have loved his late wife a great deal.
Daisy recalled how her own father fell apart after her mother died. But the Duke had remained strong. She found that she had a newfound respect for his resilience and a greater understanding of why he was not interested in marriage.
Who would want to feel that pain again?
“I’m sorry for your loss, dear.”
Harry nodded. “I’m sorry, too, Lady Daisy.”
They drank in thoughtful silence for a while.
“Do you remember much about your mother?” Harry asked.
Daisy nodded. “I do. She was a beautiful woman. So full of life. She loved to laugh. Everything was enjoyable when she was around.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t remember anything about my mother.”
Daisy’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps your father could tell you more about her.”
Harry nodded. “Maybe…”
She nudged his side, smiling when he looked up at her. “He will tell you. If you ask him nicely, he will tell you a memory of her.”
“He never has before,” Harry objected.
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to make you sad.
Just ask him to tell you one way you’ve taken after her: that is always a good place to start.
Even my father—” She trailed away, not wanting to offload her family troubles on the young boy.
“What I mean to say is that I’m sure he’d probably be happy to tell you anything you might want to know. ”
Harry jumped to his feet. “All right, then. Thank you, Lady Daisy!”
Daisy opened her mouth to say perhaps he ought to wait for a more appropriate time, but Harry had already marched off in a determined manner.
She only hoped that she had not spoken out of turn and guaranteed something that the Duke could not or would not provide.
Edmund was just finishing his glass of Madeira and debating whether it was worth the bother of venturing forth into civilization to get another when Harry appeared, sitting beside him.
“Where did you come from?” Edmund asked.
Harry gave him a strange look. “I was talking with Lady Daisy,” he said as if it should be obvious.
Edmund suppressed a smile. “And did you have a good conversation?”
Harry nodded seriously. “Yes. Lady Daisy is my friend, you know.”
Edmund had to stop himself from laughing, but also could not suppress a pang of guilt. Yes, Harry was fond of Daisy, but she had given no indication that she’d still come around once their arrangement was concluded.
What will we do when this game concludes, and Daisy no longer wants anything to do with us?
“Is that so?” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
Edmund nodded, swallowing his trepidation. “Your friendship is noted. Are you tired? Would you like to retire for the evening?”
“Not yet. I wanted to ask a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“What was my mother like?”
Edmund went still.
The question did not feel simple. It never did, not for him.
“Why are you asking?” he said.
“Because I am curious. Mr. Oswalt says when I am curious, I should ask questions.”
“Not about this,” Edmund said sharply.
Harry frowned. “Why not?”
“Because—” He stopped.
Because there is no answer that will stay the same once spoken aloud.
If he told Harry she had been kind, the boy would build a saint.
If he told him she had been clever, or stubborn, or quick to laugh, Harry would shape a story around it and carry it as the truth.
If he told him too little, there would only be absence, and Edmund knew what absence did when a child was left alone with it.
And if he told him everything—the strange, careful agreement that had made Mary his wife, the trust that had bound them, the fact that love had existed in a form that did not look like what people expected, Harry would not understand any of it.
He would only feel the edges of something he could not place.
Harry’s voice broke through Edmund’s thoughts again. “But I want to know.”
“I’m sure that is true,” Edmund mused. “But why now?”
Harry shrugged. “Lady Daisy said I ought to ask you about my mother. She said you would know best.”
“Oh.”
That was the only response Edmund could muster. He understood why Mr. Oswalt had encouraged Harry’s curiosity to flourish, but it was presumptuous and most unhelpful for Lady Daisy to urge Harry to learn more about his mother.
“Come.” Edmund stood abruptly and held out his hand to his son.
“What is wrong, Papa?” Harry looked startled.
“Nothing,” he sighed. “It is only that night is closing in and we ought to rejoin the others.”
“But…my mother…” Harry stood slowly but kept his earnest eyes locked on Edmund. “Will you promise to tell me something about her soon?”
Edmund nodded stiffly. “When the time is right, I will answer your questions.”