Page 59 of Her Beautiful Bastard
In the corridor, he encountered Alice, Drucilla’s lady’s maid, and instructed her to see to her mistress’ every need, keeping her as comfortable as possible and send for him if he was needed. He then returned to the third floor, bypassing Lydia’s closed door to go to the nursery, where he spent a few moments with his son before directing him and Mrs. Beecham to Drucilla’s room.
Then, he trudged to his study, grateful that he did not encounter any of his guests. It was still quite early, and most would not rise for another hour or so before setting out for home. Outside, carriages and horses were already being prepared for their journeys home.
Through the open door connecting his study to Charles’, he saw that his friend and steward had arrived, despite having been given the day off.
“I told you to remain at home today,” he said when he entered the little space to find Charles rearranging some items on his desk.
His friend looked as if he’d slept better than Sinclair last night, dressed in his usual stark black attire. “Yes, but after the events of last night, I thought it prudent to come anyway. What do you need, Sin?”
Sinclair sighed, once again raking a hand through his hair. His weariness had sunk bone deep, his emotionally-draining encounter with Drucilla taking what little strength he’d had left.
“There are still guests here and I … I cannot … I don’t have the forbearance to put on a mask for them, Charles. Not today.”
His friend nodded, seeming to understand, even though Sinclair had not told him all of it. “Understood. I will take care of it. Everyone will be gone by noon, and I will see to it that they have a decent breakfast beforehand.”
Sinclair sighed, relief sagging his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Charles said with a little smile. “Now, I suppose you have not been to bed yet?”
Thinking of Lydia sleeping in the bed they’d shared through the night, he fought back a smile. He would not betray her by spilling their secret, not even to his best friend.
“Not exactly,” he hedged.
Charles sighed. “Go, then. I believe I can manage things until you awaken. You look like hell.”
Sinclair laughed, but took himself off to do what he was told, too tired to argue. He managed to reach his chamber before he heard the stir of guests farther down the corridor. Leaning against his door with a relieved sigh, he paused for a moment, taking and releasing a deep breath.
He stripped off his clothing on the way to the bed, leaving a trail of garments along the way. His valet would grumble over having to pick them up, but he could not find it in him to care at the moment. He fell facedown onto the bed with a groan of satisfaction.
But then, sleep eluded him for a long while. He turned onto his back, one hand braced under his head as he stared at the ceiling. The feelings he had compressed while in Drucilla’s chambers came rushing back at him now, unfurling in his gut. They seized him so quickly, he could hardly grapple with what was happening before the pressure in his chest released, burning in his throat.
And as he turned onto his side, burying his face into the pillow, he allowed every bit of it to claim him—the anger, the sadness, the grief, and yes, the relief. A sob burned his tongue, and tears sprang to his eyes for the first time in years. Doing his best to muffle the sounds, he allowed himself to weep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lady Drucilla Clayton languished for three weeks before finally succumbing to her disease. Lydia had been in the schoolroom, just beginning the day’s lessons, when Sinclair appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed, lips tight. She had paused in the midst of writing on the slate board and put her chalk aside, her throat constricting and her chest beginning to ache as he’d entered the room and approached Henry.
The news of Lady Clayton’s imminent death had shocked her when it had first been delivered, but Sinclair had hardly seemed surprised. She supposed, given how long the woman had suffered from illness, it must have been inevitable. He had shared with her his conflicting feelings in regards to the news, the grief and sadness mingling with his hurt and anger over her years of neglect and mistreatment. He had come to her on the evening following the one they’d spent together, climbing into her bed and taking her into his arms. They hadn’t made love, simply lying together while she allowed Sinclair to unburden himself to her, finding in her a resting place for his pain. She’d listened, stroking his hair and kissing his brow as he’d talked, her own emotions torn in so many directions, she could hardly register it all.
As she stood back, one hand pressed over her mouth while she watched Sinclair go down on one knee before his son and gravely inform him that his mother had died, Lydia felt it all over again. Grief for the now motherless boy. Sadness for Sinclair, who was left burdened with grappling with his own grief while also doing his best to help Henry through his. Confusion over the relief that stole through her that it was over, and guilt that she would even think to be relieved. Her eyes stung when Henry began to wail, falling into his father’s arm, his little body shaken by sobs.
Sinclair had done his best to prepare the lad for his mother’s death, informing him weeks ago that his mama was ill and might not get better. Lydia had kept their daily lessons short, so that Henry could spend as much time with Lady Clayton as possible. Yet, she could remember being a young girl while her father had suffered from pneumonia, being told much the same thing, and still being unprepared to hear that her father had died.
Her chest ached as Sinclair looked at her over Henry’s shoulder, his own eyes watery and unfocused, as if he wrestled with himself. Lydia went to them, placing one hand upon Sinclair’s back, and another atop Henry’s head. The boy wept against his father’s shoulder while the father gazed up at her, pleadingly, mournfully.
She moved her hand up from his shoulder into his hair, and he sighed, leaning his head against her thigh and closing his eyes.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, for lack of anything better to say. “How long ago?”
“Just this morning,” he said, his voice low as he rubbed Henry’s back, the large hand strong and sure. “Alice found her … she simply fell asleep and never woke.”
That should have been comforting, but Lydia had heard the servants whisper about how Lady Clayton had suffered in her last days, the coughing so violent, even the potion she’d once relied upon had had no effect. Her sickroom had been a place of suffering and bloody handkerchiefs, the woman wasting away before the eyes of her husband and lady’s maid.
“What can I do?” she asked, needing to be able to help in some way, even as guilt continued to assail her with every breath she took.
He shook his head, closing his eyes again with a sigh. “You are already doing it. Just … stand here.”
She obliged him, standing there for him and Henry for as long as they needed, remaining still and silent while Sinclair murmured to his son, words of comfort. Eventually the boy quieted, sniffing and swiping at his watery eyes. He asked if he could see his mother, and of course, Sinclair did not deny him. Rising to his feet, he lifted Henry into the crook of one arm, holding him tight against his chest. The boy buried his face in Sinclair’s neck and did not come out, his shoulders still shuddering with the aftershocks of his cries.
