A Passion for Pleasure(95)
Of course she did. She had loved him for years. If Andrew hadn’t been taken from her and she had still somehow married Sebastian, the union would have fulfilled every wish that had ever sparked in her young imagination.
She watched as Andrew put his hands on the piano keys and clumsily reproduced the phrase Sebastian had played earlier. Her heart thrummed as she waited to see if he would turn to Sebastian and say something, but the boy kept his head down and his attention focused on his hands. He listened when Sebastian spoke, responded to the instructions, but said nothing.
What was wrong?
The fear that had lived inside Clara since the moment she discovered Andrew’s muteness bloomed into full force. When had Andrew stopped speaking?
Clara tried to remember the days following Richard’s death, all so filled with shock, grief, and chaos. Then the revelation that Andrew had been left in Fairfax’s custody, Clara’s desperate attempt to prevent her father from sending her away…yes, she had talked to Andrew many times during those weeks, attempting to comfort and reassure the boy.
She blinked back tears and tried to suppress the ache of regret. She’d been wrong in her assurance that everything would be all right. She had no idea what had happened to her son during their separation. And she feared to her very bones that she might never know.
Sebastian’s deep voice resonated in the drawing room as he placed his left hand on the keys and played another scale. Clara ducked from the shadows and hurried back to her room.
Not until this moment did she acknowledge the secret dreams that had taken root in her soul. The dreams in which she and Andrew had closed the distance of their yearlong separation with one embrace. The dreams in which they laughed and cried, and she had reassured him she would never let anyone separate them again. And then they sat down and talked about all they had done and made plans for all they would do. Together.
Never in those dreams had Clara believed things would be so different. Never had she imagined that her son, for whom she had desperately fought every minute of her waking hours, would have become a stranger.
“Now remember that the linseed oil has to be dry before you put the paper on the seams.” Sebastian lifted the cut pieces of taffeta from the wooden table while Andrew spread the brown paper beneath it. “Put a sheet on the top as well. I’ll get the iron.”
Sebastian went to the fire, where a metal iron sat heating. He brought it back to the table and told Andrew to stand back a little while he ironed the seams. A hiss and crackle rose as the iron pressed the paper, releasing the pungent smell of linseed oil.
Since arriving at Floreston Manor yesterday, Sebastian had tried to occupy Andrew’s time with activities that would prevent the boy from worrying. He hadn’t told Andrew of his plan to leave the following day for Brixham, where they would stay with a cousin of his before making their way to France.
Sebastian was so intent on his ironing task that the sudden falter of his hand caught him by surprise. The iron toppled to the side and fell to the floor as his grip weakened, the hot edge hitting the table. Andrew darted forward. He grabbed the handle to straighten the iron and placed it back on the table.
His heart pounding, Sebastian rubbed his hand and stared at the paper. He’d been using his right hand without even realizing it. He swallowed hard and met Andrew’s gaze. Although he knew the boy had noticed how little he used his right hand, Sebastian had never called attention to it. Neither had Andrew.
Andrew stepped back and nodded to the iron, as if encouraging Sebastian to finish the task. Sebastian grasped the iron with his left hand and managed to finish ironing all the seams.
After the paper cooled, Andrew tested the seams to ensure they were airtight. He looked up at Sebastian.
“Good,” Sebastian said. “We’ll give it a coat of varnish and let it dry. The one we did this morning ought to be ready.”
He went to the stove where a pot of lime and drying oil sat bubbling. He and Andrew each took a paintbrush and smeared the varnish over the taffeta and paper until it was thoroughly coated.
“We’ll leave it over here.” Sebastian lifted the material and brought it to a cord he’d strung across a corner of the kitchen. He removed a dried cloth from the line and pinned up the wet one. “Or Mrs. Danvers will have a fit of apoplexy if we take possession of her workspace.”
Andrew grinned and brought the bowl of varnish and brushes over to the washbasin. They cleaned the remainder of the mess they’d made, then Andrew took the dried material while Sebastian collected more supplies. They donned their overcoats and hats and went out into the garden. A brisk fall wind swept through the neglected beds, and the sun shone against the clear blue sky. The cold, fresh air sent a renewed energy through Sebastian, a sense of anticipation and pleasure that he thought he’d lost.