A Passion for Pleasure(97)

“I know this is the reason my father wanted to send him away,” she said, her voice low, “but I don’t understand why Andrew refuses to speak. He must have stopped speaking after I left for London because he had no such affliction when I was still at Manley Park.”

“I’ve heard him laugh,” Sebastian said.

She swung her gaze to him. “You heard him laugh? When?”

“Earlier today when we set the balloon aloft. He still has a voice. He just chooses not to use it.”

“Have you asked him why?”

Sebastian shook his head. He stared after Andrew, lifting his hand in acknowledgment as the boy held up the deflated balloon.

“I never wanted to be asked about my hand infirmity,” he said. “I assume Andrew wouldn’t want to be asked why he won’t speak.”

Clara watched her son. A breeze whipped a loose tendril of hair across her face, and Sebastian couldn’t resist brushing it aside. His fingertips stroked the softness of her cheek. An ache clenched his chest as he thought of how drastically his life had changed in the past months.

Clara turned to him again. “What will we do now?”

“I’ve made arrangements for us to leave tomorrow afternoon. I’ve sent word to a cousin who lives near Brixham. We can lodge with him for a few days. I’ve also directed Alexander’s solicitor to look into matters again, especially pertaining to the debts your father has incurred. Perhaps we might still come to an agreement with Fairfax.”

As much as he wanted to believe his own statement, the words rang hollow.

“He’s poisoned my son against me,” Clara said.

“What?”

“My father.” Her jaw tightened, a pulse thudding along the delicate column of her neck. “He must have said something to Andrew about my being responsible for Richard’s death. It’s the only explanation I can think of as to why Andrew doesn’t want to be near me.”

Before Sebastian could respond, Andrew approached, his gaze darting to Clara. Wariness flashed in his blue eyes. He paused uncertainly near Sebastian. Though Clara smiled at the boy, Sebastian felt her close in on herself, felt a strain arcing between mother and son. She stepped away from them.

“I’ll…I’ll leave you both to your sport, then. Tea will be ready in an hour, if you’d care to join me.”

“Of course.” Sebastian watched her return to the house, her steps measured and stiff.

Andrew tugged on his sleeve and held up the balloon. Sebastian took it, wanting again that feeling of blithe freedom to conquer his foreboding.

“Let’s try it again, shall we?”





Chapter Twenty


Clara sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over Andrew’s legs. He held an open book on his lap, his chestnut hair falling in a swath across his forehead as he examined an illustration of a knight on horseback. Clara curled her fingers into a fist, suppressing the urge to reach out and stroke the lock of hair back.

“Do you still like the King Arthur tales?” she asked, desperate for any topic that would reconnect her with her son. “I remember we read them often when we were at Manley Park.”

Andrew nodded and turned a page. Clara placed a tentative hand on his leg, and experienced a rush of relief when he didn’t pull away from her touch.

“Andrew.”

He glanced up.

“Whatever…” Her voice tangled into a knot. She took a breath. “Whatever your grandfather has said about me, it’s not true. Do you understand?”

Andrew returned his attention to the book. Clara’s hand tightened on the bedcovers.

“I never wanted your father to be hurt. I never wanted to leave you. And I certainly never wanted to give you up to the custody of your grandfather. Will you please believe me?”

He didn’t look at her, but gave a nod so slight that Clara might have missed it had she not been gazing at him so intently. She patted his leg and stood. A small reassurance was better than none at all. She bent to kiss his forehead and whisper good night, then returned to her own bedchamber down the corridor.

While she was glad to her bones that Sebastian and Andrew had developed a quick and strong friendship, Clara could not dispel her pervasive sorrow that Andrew had become so unreachable to her.

She stripped out of her clothes and washed, then unpinned her hair and brushed out the tangles. She crawled into bed with a book of poetry. The words dipped and swam before her unfocused eyes.