Chapter 2 #2
She’d kept one, apparently. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Best not to give it weight. Things get kept. Like paper clips and polished rocks.
And particular sheets of violin music.
His neck became warm at the errant thought. He glanced down and hurriedly pulled the pin from the posy she’d attached to his coat and tossed the flowers on the table.
“Cyril?”
He cleared his throat and straightened his tie, going to the cupola door.
He found his mother at the bottom of the stairs.
A reputed beauty, elegant and sophisticated, Rose Burke had softened with age and laugh lines and seven children.
Most of the time, he guessed, she was simply exhausted. “Yes, Mother?”
She smiled up at him. “Are you going to make me raise my voice, or do I have to come up there?”
“I’m coming down.” He returned to shut the window, made sure it was sound, then left the peace of the cupola and descended the stairs.
She waited in his room, her hand resting on the small ledge above his tiny hearth, her finger touching the framed photograph of her four oldest sons. A frown touched her brow.
“What is it?” he asked. “How is Father?”
“He is resting.”
His eyes widened. “Is it Henry? I swear, I did what I thought was best—”
“Oh no, Henry is quite well and will live to torment his brother another day. His ego may be a bit bruised, as he’ll be staying in the nursery for a week to think about respecting others’ property …” She pointedly raised a brow.
He deflated. “Yes, that would’ve been the better solution. I really couldn’t blame Patrick though.”
“No, I suppose not. They are you and Oscar all over again.”
“That thought occurred to me as well in the moment.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the space next to her. He sat and squeezed his hands together in his lap.
“The way the boys are getting on lately, I was wondering what you might think about … converting the nursery.”
“To what?”
“A bedroom.”
Cy squeezed his hands tightly, then relaxed them. “That’s quite a large space for one smallish boy.” The Burkes who built the house had made sure the nursery was exceptionally spacious for their increasing offspring. It took up half the upper floor.
“I don’t mean for Henry. I mean for you.”
Cy blinked. “For me?”
“Yes.”
“The nursery.”
“Yes. And then Patrick would move in here.” She watched him expectantly.
“No.”
“It would be so much bigger than this room.”
“No.”
“I would suggest he move in with George and take Simon’s bed, but Simon will be home for summer break in two weeks after his visit with the Tolleys.”
“No.”
“It would be temporary, only until you older children started marrying—”
“Started marrying? Mother, Oakleigh House is mine to inherit. If I were to take a wife, are you suggesting I return with her to the nursery?”
“Are you suggesting that you’d planned on returning with your bride to this room?” She gestured to the single wardrobe. “At least the nursery has its own plumbing.”
“When I marry, I’ll not be ousting you and Father from your home. You are far too young and still have children under your feet. But I’ll not be bringing a bride here. Little Oakley, or perhaps Eventide, will do well enough. Oscar could move back into the house. Perhaps to the nursery.” He grinned.
Her mouth twitched. “Perhaps.”
“In fact, why don’t I move into Little Oakleigh now and Oscar can be put in the nursery just as it is?” He pictured his broad-shouldered brother pushing the tiny beds together.
She laughed and shook her head. “You know he has a guest. Mr. Hayes is staying indefinitely until his business is underway.”
“Or until he marries Lydia Wooding and moves into Briarwall.”
“I didn’t want to presume, but yes.”
“It’s a fair presumption. I’ve never seen two people better suited for each other. Except you and Father, of course.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it.
“That’s what I wish for you, you know.”
He set her hand on the coverlet between them, keeping it in his. “I know.”
“You’re getting older.”
“I know.”
“Your father was twenty-five when we marri—”
“I know, Mother.”
“You’re twenty-eight—”
He laughed at the ceiling. “And we wonder where Henry gets his tenacity.”
“Oh, I’ve never wondered that.” Mischief glinted in her eyes, which were almost gray, like brother George’s.
He shook his head with a chuckle but sobered.
“I will speak plainly.” He gave her hand a soft squeeze.
“These changes you suggest for the nursery … they will have to wait. The improvements on Little Oakleigh took much of our savings, and the unexpected chimney work didn’t help.
At least we put off purchasing the horses we were looking at.
Simon will be home for summer holiday but must continue at university.
And George has just decided to become a doctor; did he tell you? ”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “Have mercy.”
He chuckled. “Indeed. But he’s serious.” He wouldn’t tell her that the helplessness George felt for Father’s situation had pushed him into a decision.
He’d leave that to George if he wished to share it.
He squeezed her hand, so small in his. “We’ll have to wait for our coffers to replenish a bit.
Quite a bit. And if we are to consider a hospital—”
“We’ll not be sending your father anywhere. He will recover here. He will convalesce here.” Her voice had cracked, and she put her fingers to her lips, as if to make her fear invisible.
Cy opened his arm and she leaned into him, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I’m trying to be strong.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You are strong. You’ve managed to keep seven children alive and thriving, the servants adore you, and I can’t give Father credit for Ruby. You’ve done well, Mother.”
She sniffled. “What the Lord was thinking when he sent her to us amidst all you ruffians. Ruby is an angel, isn’t she?”
“Her halo hides beneath all those big hats.”
She laughed and he breathed a little easier. He stood to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk and offered it to her.
“You know,” she said, taking the glass, “your father wanted to fill this house, every room, so we’d never have to entertain guests.”
He chuckled as he took the chair at the desk. “That I can believe.”
“You are like him that way.”
“My observation is that the house is quite full enough,” he said, sure his face reddened at the prospect of fathering a brood of Burkes.
It wasn’t something he often allowed himself to think about.
Because it would ultimately bring him to wondering about a wife.
Which was an odd sort of ordering of thoughts.
“You know what I mean. You prefer home and family to crowds, and at times, you prefer quiet and solitude to family.”
His gaze went to the papered door to the cupola, and he nodded. “I’ll not deny it.”
“You couldn’t. I know you better, perhaps, than any other person in the world knows you.
” She leaned forward, whispering. “Though, I pray that will change one day.” She quirked her dark eyebrows.
“You know, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good home should be in want of a companion to share it with.”
“This home is not, in that sense, mine, and there is hardly room to share it.”
“We shall all think very small thoughts.”
His brow rose.
“Very quiet, small thoughts. You shan’t even know we are here.” She tapped her chin. “Perhaps we shall squeeze all of us into Little Oakleigh and haunt you on occasion like Dickens’s ghosts.” She wiggled her fingers at him.
He leaned forward. “You scare me sometimes.”
She grinned, her eyes alight. “You’ve nothing to fear from this quarter.”
He smiled back. “Neither do you. We will be fine. The timing is the trick. I agree that Patrick could use his own space. We’ve barely enough bedrooms with all the boys sharing and Oscar in the gatehouse.
And no, I’m not counting myself and this closet.
Henry is in the nursery for a week. I’m sure we can come up with a solution by the end of it. ”
Mother looked down and pulled a folded letter from a pocket. “There may be … another solution.” She frowned at the letter in her grip. “This arrived this morning. I cannot decide if it is good news or ominous. But it is timely.”
“Ominous?” He looked at the thick paper and held out his hand. Unfolding the letter, he met neat, squared letters and a florid name at the letterhead. “Carlton? Your family?”
She nodded, her hands now clenched together.
Intrigued, he read the letter’s contents aloud.
“Mrs. Rose Emilia Carlton Burke. It has recently come to our attention that you have been bequeathed the property of Pimms Mill, Abinger, Dorking, with the passing of Sir Winston Alfred Carlton, your great-great uncle on your mother’s father’s side, your mother having been a favorite grand-niece and S. W. having no children of his own.”
“Great-great-uncle?” Cy murmured. “How old was the fellow?”
She put her hand to her head. “One-hundred and four. But I’d no idea he was still alive.
” Her hand dropped back to her lap. “He moved to the Continent years ago, before I was born. I met him only twice. Or perhaps three times. He never wrote to my mother, that I know of.” She sighed.
“At least, I didn’t find any letters in her things.
I feel awful. I just assumed he’d lived a life there and died a contented man. ”
“Mmm. Perhaps we can learn more when we meet with the solicitors in London. What of Pimms Mill? Do you know it? Is it an actual mill?”
She shook her head. “I never visited. My mother spoke fondly of the man, but when I met him, it was at my father’s home in London, and I was so young. I remember him being very fine. Kind. He’d come from France.”
“Mmm.” He continued to read the letter to himself. “We are to meet at the solicitor’s offices tomorrow in Guildford.”
“Yes. Barely time to think.”