Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The following morning, emerging from his study after accidentally falling asleep at his desk, Malcolm climbed the stairs to the nursery. Outside the manor, the world was just waking up, the air filled with the chirps and twitters of the dawn chorus.
Indeed, he hoped it was early enough that Octavia would still be asleep, no doubt curled up beside their son.
Stealthily, he peeked into the nursery… and his lips involuntarily quirked into a smile at the scene before him. Sure enough, Octavia lay beside Simon, her arm curved protectively around him, sound asleep.
Has there ever been a more beautiful sight?
Perhaps it was that very thought that pushed him further into the room, edging closer to the bed. There was so much darkness in his mind that, just for a moment, he wanted to savor a little glimmer of light.
“Papa?”
Malcolm froze as his green eyes met those of his son.
He’s awake. He’s going to be all right.
Before he could stop himself, he had hurried to the other side of the bed and perched right there on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching for Simon’s.
“Ye had us worried, laddie. How do ye feel?” he asked quietly, so as not to wake Octavia.
Simon gave his father’s hand a fair squeeze, his little palm clammy against the dry rough of Malcolm’s. “Thirsty.”
“Thirsty? Aye, well, we can solve that.”
Still holding his son’s hand, he reached for a cup of water and brought it to Simon’s lips. The boy drank slowly, and when he was done, he wiped his mouth and stared up at his father.
“Thank you, Papa.”
Malcolm smiled; the first smile that had felt natural since the return of his memories. “Ye’re very welcome, laddie. Are ye still warm? How’s yer head?”
“Sore,” the boy murmured. “A bit warm.”
“Ye’ve nae been well, but I kenned ye’d be all right,” Malcolm said, relieved. “Ye had a fever, but the doctor gave ye some medicine.”
Simon pulled a face. “Don’t like medicine.”
“No one does.” Malcolm chuckled softly, his heart aching… for it was not just him that the boy resembled. Simon looked so much like Barnaby had done when he was a child. A sweet, lively, cheerful soul.
The sound of laughter must have pierced through the haze of Octavia’s sleep, for she stirred suddenly.
Her eyes blinked open, surprise registering across her beautiful face as she saw Malcolm there.
Then, in a rush, she sat bolt upright, pulling Simon into a fierce embrace, rocking him as she whispered over and over, “Thank goodness. Oh, thank goodness.”
“I got better,” Simon murmured into his mother’s shoulder.
“Yes, you did,” she replied, tears beading on her eyelashes. “Yes, yes, you did, my darling boy. Your father said you would. I have not left your side, my dear one.”
Malcolm’s heart twinged again, his mind playing tricks. “Careful, lass. Ye might squeeze all of the air out of him.”
Simon chuckled at that, his little arms attempting to squeeze his mother in return.
Hearing that humor, knowing Simon would be alright, some part of Malcolm willed him to put his arms around them both, his wife and his son, and hold onto them tightly. Yet, there was another part of him that kept him where he was, just an observer, not part of the small, happy family before him.
“How long has he been awake?” Octavia asked, as she released her grip on her son and smoothed fever-damp strands of hair out of his face.
Malcolm shrugged. “Nae long.”
“Why did you not wake me?”
“Ye looked peaceful,” he replied, meaning it.
There was something almost heavenly about Octavia when she slept, all of the weight and worries of the day abandoning her. It was hard to describe, but it was a facet of her that he had not forgotten from the days of their short honeymoon.
At Highcastle, before leaving to his own bedchamber, he had stayed at her side and watched her for a while, drinking in her serenity as if it could somehow be borrowed.
He would admire her radiant skin, her content expression, her full, pink lips, and the way her hair draped across the pillows like silk.
He would gaze at her and, on occasion, imagine what it might be like to wake up beside her instead of slipping out of the room before she awoke.
It was only when he began imagining what it might be like to wake up beside her every morning that he had stopped those observations, for that was where danger lay.
“Will you fetch the doctor?” Octavia asked.
Malcolm bowed his head in a nod, for this too was dangerous territory. “Aye, I’ll get him now. And what do ye say to some chicken soup, laddie? To bring back yer strength?”
Simon nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll nae be long.” Malcolm got up and went to the door, pausing before he crossed the threshold to take one last look.
Octavia was holding Simon again, her mouth moving in a whisper that Malcolm could not hear.
The absolute joy and relief upon her face moved him in ways he could not trust and could not permit, even if he shared the feeling.
He could not be a part of this little family.
Nothing good could come of it, for what he loved, he lost.
He had no heart to give to either of them; it had been frozen long ago. And he would not ruin what his wife and son had created here when he could not promise that he would be the husband and father that they deserved.
Chest tight, he walked out. A rehearsal for the inevitable departure for Scotland that would separate them again, for good this time.
By the afternoon, Simon was asking if he might go outside for some fresh air. Naturally, Octavia had been against it, afraid that he might overexert himself and become ill again, but after some encouragement from Doctor Stanforth and Malcolm, she had finally relented.
“We are not to walk for long,” she said to her son, “and if you feel yourself getting tired or you start to feel too hot again, you must tell me.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mama.”
She had never known relief like it, when she had woken up to find her son with his eyes open, and her husband holding the boy’s hand. But she would not be able to truly relax until Simon was running around, laughing and playing like usual, and they were still some way off that.
“Why don’t ye ride on my shoulders for a while?” Malcolm offered, with a wink to his son.
Simon brightened and nodded effusively.
Seeming more like himself than he had since the game of lawn bowls ended, Malcolm swept the boy up and set him on his shoulders.
Octavia could not help but smile, her heart full, her concerns about her husband ebbing.
Maybe, just like Simon’s fever, whatever had been troubling Malcolm had broken at the same time, and now they could continue to…
To what? What is it that I want?
She did not have the answers, not truly, but she hoped that they might continue to build upon the foundation of whatever had begun when he came to Huntfield.
Not that she was expecting a grand romance or any romance at all, but she was starting to believe that it would not be so bad to have Malcolm around. Permanently.
Five years ago, she would have balked at the idea, but this was not the Malcolm Gale of five years ago. Things had changed. He had changed, and perhaps that warranted a change from her, too.
“Ride, horsey!” Simon cried, giggling.
Malcolm shook his head, an almost shy expression falling across his face as a bark of a laugh escaped his lips. “I would, but yer mother wouldn’t like it if I ran off with ye through the gardens. Ye’re nae at yer full strength again yet.”
The boy pouted a little, but as Malcolm carried him up to an apple tree and his small hand reached for one of the glossy fruits, it appeared that all was forgiven.
“I picked one by myself!” Simon cheered, and Octavia’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst.
What would I have done without you? She was not quite sure to whom the question was aimed. Perhaps both.
It might not have seemed like much, but having Malcolm with her through the panic of discovering Simon’s fever was a support she had not known she needed.
And when he had held her, she had never felt safer, or more certain that everything would be alright.
As if it would all be alright because he had been holding her, imbuing her with his strength.
“You did, my darling! How wonderful!” Octavia clapped her hands together. “But do not eat it, sweetling. It might be sour, and you do not want to cause yourself a stomach upset.”
Malcolm cast his wife an odd gaze, half sympathetic, half despairing. “Lass, it’s fruit. It won’t cause him any harm.” He twisted his head to glance up at his son. “And if it is sour, maybe we can pick a few more and ask the cook to put them into a pie, eh? What do ye think of that, laddie?”
“Apple pie!” the boy howled in delight.
Meanwhile, Octavia felt a small sting in her chest, deflating the swell of her heart somewhat. For almost five years, it had just been her and her son. She was the one who made the rules and guided Simon safely through life, but if Malcolm stayed, he would undoubtedly want to involve himself too.
I do not want him to be as rough as you, Malcolm. I want him to be softer than that.
But was that a mistake? Was what her friends had said true? Was she doing Simon a disservice by being the only one to raise him? They were concerns she had never needed to have before, when it had just been the two of them.
Her eyes widened in alarm as Simon bit down into the apple, though she held her tongue. If she sheltered her son from everything, how would he cope when he was older?
Simon pulled a face. “Sour, Papa.”
“Aye, well then, it’s into the pie for that one,” Malcolm said, with that warm smile that she had missed over the past few days. “How about ye pick a few more and hand them to me. I can toss them to yer mother, and we’ll have us a sweet treat with our dinner.”
He glanced at Octavia with that same stirring smile, and her heart immediately puffed up again, fluttering. How could it not react to him when he looked at her like that, as if she meant something to him?
“I shall have to fetch an apron,” she protested, while Simon reached up to pick another apple.
“Nonsense, lass. Just fold up yer skirt,” Malcolm replied.
She blinked at him. “But… it will get dirty.”
“And there are fine laundry maids here who’ll tend to that for ye,” he said, as Simon dropped the apple and Malcolm caught it deftly. “Ready?”
“Malcolm! Malcolm, no, I—” she tried to argue, but he was performing a charade of throwing the fruit.
Groaning through a laugh, she hitched up her skirt and formed it into a sort of basket.
Her face flushed with warmth, realizing the impropriety of standing there with her petticoats on show…
but was he not her husband? Did it matter if he accidentally glimpsed her ankle or saw the silhouette of her shins through the thinner white material?
As the apple left his hand, she stumbled forward and opened out the skirt basket. A triumphant cheer left her mouth as it landed safely, her happiness soaring in a way she could not control.
Long ago, when she was a much younger woman, this was all she had dreamed about: to have a husband she cherished, who cherished her in return, raising a family together in a fine house, filled with laughter and merriment.
An idyllic dream that her incident with that wretched gentleman in the street had shattered, robbing her of any desire to pursue such a fantasy.
Could it be that such a dream found me anyway?
She was so busy wondering that she almost missed the next apple that sailed in her direction.
“A fine catch!” Malcolm declared. “Simon, yer mother is a natural.”
“You’re a natural, Mama!” Simon agreed, as he strained for the next fruit, his legs secured by the capable grip of his father’s free hand.
Sudden, silly tears prickled at Octavia’s eyes. It was such a simple moment, and yet it meant so much.
May your memories never return, she found herself praying, as an immediate prickle of guilt caught her in the stomach.
Just then, she noticed Malcolm’s gaze slide downward, his eyebrow quirking in a manner that brought an intense heat to her face. Following his gaze, she realized that the hem of her petticoats was somewhat higher than she had anticipated, revealing a glimpse of stocking.
His gaze flitted back up to meet hers, his eyes glittering with something like…
remembrance. No, that could not be right; it was more like admiration.
Either way, her face must have been as hot as Simon’s fever, especially as there was nothing she could do to lower the hem, not while she was catching apples.
“I am waiting, Malcolm,” she said, more curtly than she had intended. “You seem to be neglecting your duties.”
His mouth tugged into a half-smirk. “Aye, I daresay I am.”
Taking another apple from Simon, Malcolm threw the fruit in a generous arc, easily captured. Nevertheless, Octavia almost missed the catch; she was so stunned by his words and confused by their meaning.
Might he… want another child?
She hardly dared to hope, the bashful warmth in her face transforming into the heat of possibility.
It was no secret that she had thought about their honeymoon from time to time, her skin tingling whenever she remembered the power of that first kiss, but she had put that part of herself away, locked it in a box of impossible things, alongside the promise of siblings for Simon.
If all it took was a knock to the head to get Malcolm to grant her more children, she would have taken a rock to his skull years ago.
“How many do ye think we need?” Malcolm asked.
Octavia snapped out of her reverie. “What?”
Was he talking about children?
“How many apples do ye think we need?” he said, as her cheeks burned furiously.
“For a pie? At least ten, I should think.” She looked down at the four in her skirts, if only to give herself a moment to catch her breath. “Six more, my darling.”
When Malcolm’s eyebrow rose again, she added hastily, “I was talking to Simon.”
“Aye, I ken,” he replied with that ghost of a smirk.
Maybe, she really had been wrong about the difference in him since he came back from London. Maybe it had all been because of Simon’s sickness, for the man standing in front of her, looking at her like that, was every bit the Malcolm she wanted to keep around.
“Ye heard yer mama, laddie,” he said, looking up at his son. “Six more. Count them out for me as ye pick them.”
With fixed determination on his face, Simon picked and counted, and when he faltered, Malcolm did not correct him outright or with impatience but encouraged him to try again until he had the right number.
A sight that filled Octavia up with such pride and such joy that she could hardly bear it, for one thing she had never expected was that Malcolm might be a good father.
Oh no… she thought with a jolt, for it really was beginning to feel like Evelyn was right: Octavia Gale, the woman who had never sought a normal sort of marriage, was falling in love with her husband.