Page 34 of His Forgotten Bride
“No,” he admitted, “but it’s not necessary that I take guardianship of him to provide him with the benefits of such a position. He need not be consigned to a life of service, Claire. He can have a proper education, and eventually, when he is old enough, he could go to Eton or Harrow, to Oxford eventually, or perhaps Cambridge—”
She made an infuriated little sound beneath her breath. “Such a thing isyearsaway,” she said. “You met him only days ago. Children require consistency, my lord. He has suffered enough insecurity in his life already. You cannot make such a commitment to a child you do not know, and it is unfair to upend his life yet again. I know your sort often undertakes such acts of charity, but he is not a child in a foundling home that could be content with a visit on alternate weeks—”
“My sort?” he repeated. “My God, I would never have suspected you of such snobbery.” He dragged his hand through his hair, feeling as though he had somehow gotten himself embroiled in a verbal fencing match. “If it will ease your mind, I can put the necessary funds away for him when he reaches the age to go off to school. But youmustknow that he can have opportunities far beyond those with which you could provide him.” He eased closer still, and the insane desire to reach out and take her hand struck him—but the rigidity with which she held herself suggested that such an action would be folly.
Her chest rose and fell with tightly structured breaths, her jaw tense and trembling faintly. “I don’t understand why you would do such a thing,” she said. “Why you would treat him as if—”
As if Matthew were his own child. Of course she could not understand such a thing. Doubtless she found his willingness to take in her child, to provide a better life for the boy, disconcerting at best…or perhaps suspect.
Claire had been a housekeeper for years, and had very likely seen an uglier side to life, the sorts of goings on that polite society had the privilege of pretending did not exist. Servants were privy to their masters’ secrets, and he wondered briefly if she had ever worked in a home where the master had had an unnatural fondness for children, if she might believe him capable of the same.
“I would never,” he found himself saying, with a touch more severity than was strictly necessary, “harm your child. Harmanychild.”
She blinked, her eyes going wide with understanding, but at last she said, “I never thought you would.”
Good. That was good. Gabriel did not quite understand why it seemed so imperative to have her trust, to secure her faith in his good intentions—only that she felt…comfortable. As if he had known her far longer than the few weeks she had worked in house. He couldn’t quite wrap his brain around the feeling, couldn’t determine why she, of all people, should provoke a sense of ease and comfort he hadn’t felt even with the people he had once called friends. But shedid, and it had been so long since he had felt comfortable in his own skin, so long since he had felt anything even approaching peace within himself that he was loath to surrender it.
Silence stretched out between them, thick as London fog. Finally Claire broke it, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “Matthew is a sensitive child,” she said. “He has no true father figure in his life. He could so easily grow attached to you, my lord.”
Comprehension dawned like the sun creeping over the horizon. “Ah,” he said. “The riding lessons.” That sort of thing fell beneath the purview of a father. Unintentionally, he had assumed a role to which he was not entitled, a position in her son’s life that could never belong to him. “Does he remember his father?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, her expression guarded. “No, he was…gone before Matthew was born.” Her fingers gripped the back of the chair tightly, her knuckles gone white, and he gathered that this remained a sensitive subject for her, despite the years that had passed. Her breath shuddered out unsteadily. “He has not suffered for lack of a father, my lord, but he may look for one in you nonetheless. It would be kinder not to let him build his hopes around you.”
“It’s not my intention to subvert your authority, or to take his father’s place.” Christ, he had not expected this to be so complicated. She thought him capricious, taken by whims and flights of fancy, and she was…not wrong in her assessment. Of course she would worry for her son; she had had weeks now to take his measure and what she had observed of him would hardly have been comforting.
He had been making rather a lot of explanations these days, revealing parts of himself that he had worked strenuously at keeping hidden. Claire, of all people, deserved an explanation. Curiously, the decision to share with her his condition, along with the circumstances that had led to his decision to take her son into his home, did not provoke the frisson of anxiety he’d expected.
“Take tea with me,” he said. “There is…something I’d like to explain to you.” As a mollifying gesture, he added, “Matthew will be brought down as well. It would be good for both of you, I think.”
He wasn’t sure quite what he had expected of her, but it had certainly not been the swiftly-drawn breath or the straightening of her shoulders. “My lord, I have many duties to which I must attend—”
“Delegate them. I’m certain assembling herb sachets does not require such skill as to necessitate your presence.” Why she was so determined to be difficult, he could not guess, but her reticence was hardly flattering. “Claire, you cannot expect me to believe you wouldn’t like to spend time with him. I won’t believe it.”
“Of course I would.” The fierce reply accompanied the dark slash of her brows. “He is my son,of courseI would prefer to be close to him. I simply cannot see the wisdom of raising his hopes, when it cannot last.”
It cannot last. It cannot last. The words shimmered in his head, an echo of words someone had spoken to him long ago. Some distant part of his brain recognized the tremor of misery in it, as if she struggled against an oppressive burden that threatened to crush her beneath it. A raw thread of pain zipped through his head, and his pulse beat in his ears. The beginnings of a migraine, settling in behind his eyes, swift and severe.
His vision blurred, clouding at the edges. The light through the window was suddenly sharper than he could bear, and he turned his face from it, shading his eyes with his hand. “I beg your pardon,” he said, hearing the slurred thickness of his voice.
“My lord?” Her voice was distorted, taking on a queer, dreamlike quality—and in his pain-shrouded mind, it lanced through his head in a perfect mimicry of that soft, indistinct voice he heard sometimes in those few fragments of memory he possessed ofher, of Catherine. “Are…are you well?”
“No,” he managed, just as his knees buckled beneath him.
He heard the strangled gasp she gave, saw, through the grey haze that had descended over his vision, the quick burst of movement. She tumbled to the floor with him, miraculously pitching herself into his path, catching his shoulders to slow his descent. His head landed in her lap, and he had only a moment to be thankful that the soft, clean scent of washing soda clinging to her skirts forced away the intrusive, jumbled odors pervading the still room before grey slid into black, and he succumbed to unconsciousness.
Chapter Eighteen
Claire had been sitting at Gabriel’s bedside for hours. Even knowing that he would likely not be appreciative of her efforts hadn’t driven her from the room. Somehow, it had been terribly important to be by his side. Not to him, in all likelihood—but to her. It had been important toher. He had no one else.
Rather than leaving him to his own devices, she had ordered up a pitcher of cold water and cloths, and instructed the servants to stay away from the upper floor to keep the noise at a minimum. Though a hint of bronze light shone through the drawn curtains, suggesting sunset was approaching, the room was otherwise as dark as she could make it.
She dipped a fresh cloth in water, wrung it out, and carefully draped the cool compress over Gabriel’s forehead, stroking back the dark chestnut locks that tended toward curling there. Matthew had the same unruly fringe of hair that resisted her attempts to smooth it into place.
“You smell like washing soda.” His voice was rusty, unsteady, and she jerked at the sound.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said, withdrawing her hand, wondering just how long he had been awake.
“It’s not unpleasant.” He stirred, drawing the cloth away from his head and tossing it aside. It landed somewhere on the floor with a wet plop. “You’re making a habit of sitting by my bedside.”
