Chapter Thirteen #3
He bounded out of bed with his usual energy, demanding breakfast and chattering about the dreams he'd had: something involving pirates and a flying horse, from what Eliza could piece together. There was no sign of the frail, flushed child who had worried them all the night before.
"I'm hungry," he announced, as if being ill had been a personal affront that required immediate compensation. "Can I have extra ham? And toast with jam? And maybe some of those little cakes the Cook makes?"
"You may have a normal breakfast," Eliza said, smiling despite her exhaustion. "And if you eat all your porridge without complaint, we'll discuss the possibility of cakes."
"Porridge is disgusting."
"Porridge is healthy. And it's what ill people eat when they're recovering from fevers."
"I'm not ill! I feel perfectly fine!"
"Then you won't mind proving it by eating your porridge."
Henry grumbled but allowed himself to be bundled into his dressing gown and escorted down to the breakfast room. The servants they passed smiled with evident relief—news of the young master's illness had apparently spread through the household, and his recovery was a cause for celebration.
Alistair appeared at breakfast, looking tired but composed. There were shadows under his eyes that suggested he hadn't slept much either. But his expression, when he entered the room and saw Henry chattering away at the table, was one of profound relief.
He met Eliza's eyes across the room and held her gaze for just a moment; a private acknowledgment of what had passed between them in the dark hours. Something flickered in his expression, something warm and complicated that made her heart stutter.
Then he turned to Henry with a smile that was becoming more natural every day.
"I'm glad you're feeling better."
"I'm glad too! I had the most exciting dreams: there were pirates, and they had a ship that could fly, and I was the captain, and we found buried treasure on an island made entirely of chocolat…"
"That does sound exciting."
"Miss Harrow says I can play outside today if I wear my coat and don't get my feet wet. Can you come? We're going to look for rabbit tracks in the snow."
Alistair glanced at Eliza, something flickering in his expression. "That sounds like an excellent activity."
"Will you come?" Henry pressed. "Please? You never come on our walks anymore."
That wasn't entirely true. Alistair had joined them several times in recent weeks, but Henry had a child's talent for selective memory when it served his purposes.
"I have estate business this morning. But perhaps this afternoon…"
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Henry beamed and began eating his porridge with renewed enthusiasm, apparently satisfied. Eliza busied herself with her own breakfast, acutely aware of Alistair taking his seat across the table, and aware of the weight of his attention even when he wasn't looking directly at her.
The breakfast room felt smaller than usual. More intimate. As if the events of last night had somehow shrunk the space between them, making every glance feel significant, every silence feel charged.
Under the table, Eliza felt something brush against her ankle, just for a moment, just the barest whisper of contact, and looked up to find Alistair studiously examining his coffee cup.
Her heart stuttered.
It was deliberate. It was a message, sent beneath the table where no one could see. A reminder that what had happened last night was not a fever dream, not something to be forgotten in the cold light of morning.
She pressed her foot back against his, just briefly, and saw the corner of his mouth twitch. The tiniest of smiles, there and gone in an instant.
"Well," she said, her voice admirably steady given the circumstances, "we should finish breakfast and begin lessons. Henry, eat your eggs, not just the toast."
"Eggs are boring."
"Eggs are nutritious. Eat them anyway."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
The meal continued, ordinary and domestic on the surface. Mrs. Crawford came in to discuss the day's menus with Alistair, a footman brought fresh tea, and Henry complained about his eggs but ate them anyway, because he had learned by now that Miss Harrow's patience was infinite.
And beneath the table, two people communicated in a language made entirely of touch: a brush of ankle against ankle, a press of foot against foot, small secret contacts that said everything they couldn't say aloud.
When breakfast ended, and they rose to leave, Alistair caught Eliza's eye one last time.
"Thank you," he said quietly, "for sitting with him last night. I know you didn't have to."
"Of course I did. He's…" She stopped, suddenly aware of how the sentence wanted to end. He's mine. He's ours. He's the child of my heart, even if not of my body. "He needed someone with him."
"He did. And so did I, apparently."
The words hung between them, laden with meaning. Then Henry tugged at Eliza's hand, demanding attention, and the moment passed.
But as she led Henry up to the nursery for lessons, Eliza carried the warmth of those words with her.
And she thought: This is either the beginning of something wonderful, or the beginning of disaster.
She hoped—desperately, foolishly, with her whole heart—that it would be the former.