The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(62)

“Your mother told me.”

Anthony felt a spark of something warm and powerful in his chest as she spoke. He’d told her she didn’t have to say anything, and she’d been quite obviously thankful for that, but now she was actually taking part in the conversation. Surely that had to mean she was beginning to feel better. If she’d open her eyes—if they weren’t sitting under a table—it might seem almost normal.

And it was stunning how much he wanted to be the one to make her feel better.

“Shall I tell you about the time my brother drowned my sister’s favorite doll?” he asked.

She shook her head, then flinched when the wind picked up, causing the rain to beat against the windows with new ferocity. But she steeled her chin and said, “Tell me something about you.”

“All right,” Anthony said slowly, trying to ignore the vague, uncomfortable feeling that spread in his chest. It was so much easier to tell a tale of his many siblings than to talk about himself.

“Tell me about your father.”

He froze. “My father?”

She smiled, but he was too shocked by her request to notice. “You must have had one,” she said.

Anthony’s throat began to feel very tight. He didn’t often talk about his father, not even with his family. He’d told himself that it was because it was so much water under the bridge; Edmund had been dead for over ten years. But the truth was that some things simply hurt too much.

And there were some wounds that didn’t heal, not even in ten years.

“He—he was a great man,” he said softly. “A great father. I loved him very much.”

Kate turned to look at him, the first time she’d met his gaze since he’d lifted her chin with his fingers many minutes earlier. “Your mother speaks of him with great affection. That was why I asked.”

“We all loved him,” he said simply, turning his head and staring out across the room. His eyes focused on the leg of a chair, but he didn’t really see it. He didn’t see anything but the memories in his mind. “He was the finest father a boy could ever want.”

“When did he die?”

“Eleven years ago. In the summer. When I was eighteen. Right before I left for Oxford.”

“That’s a difficult time for a man to lose his father,” she murmured.

He turned sharply to look at her. “Any time is a difficult time for a man to lose his father.”

“Of course,” she quickly agreed, “but some times are worse than others, I think. And surely it must be different for boys and girls. My father passed on five years ago, and I miss him terribly, but I don’t think it’s the same.”

He didn’t have to voice his question. It was there in his eyes.

“My father was wonderful,” Kate explained, her eyes warming as she reminisced. “Kind and gentle, but stern when he needed to be. But a boy’s father—well, he has to teach his son how to be a man. And to lose a father at eighteen, when you’re just learning what all that means…” She let out a long exhale. “It’s probably presumptuous for me even to discuss it, as I’m not a man and therefore couldn’t possibly put myself in your shoes, but I think…” She paused, pursing her lips as she considered her words. “Well, I just think it would be very difficult.”

“My brothers were sixteen, twelve, and two,” Anthony said softly.

“I would imagine it was difficult for them as well,” she replied, “although your youngest brother probably doesn’t remember him.”

Anthony shook his head.

Kate smiled wistfully. “I don’t remember my mother, either. It’s an odd thing.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“It was on my third birthday. My father married Mary only a few months later. He didn’t observe the proper mourning period, and it shocked some of the neighbors, but he thought I needed a mother more than he needed to follow etiquette.”

For the first time, Anthony wondered what would have happened if it had been his mother who had died young, leaving his father with a house full of children, several of them infants and toddlers. Edmund wouldn’t have had an easy time of it. None of them would have.

Not that it had been easy for Violet. But at least she’d had Anthony, who’d been able to step in and try to act the role of surrogate father to his younger siblings. If Violet had died, the Bridgertons would have been left completely without a maternal figure. After all, Daphne—the eldest of the Bridgerton daughters—had been only ten at Edmund’s death. And Anthony was certain that his father would not have remarried.

No matter how his father would have wanted a mother for his children, he would not have been able to take another wife.

“How did your mother die?” Anthony asked, surprised by the depth of his curiosity.

“Influenza. Or at least that’s what they thought. It could have been any sort of lung fever.” She rested her chin on her hand. “It was very quick, I’m told. My father said I fell ill as well, although mine was a mild case.”

Anthony thought about the son he hoped to sire, the very reason he had finally decided to marry. “Do you miss a parent you never knew?” he whispered.

Kate considered his question for some time. His voice had held a hoarse urgency that told her there was something critical about her reply. Why, she couldn’t imagine, but something about her childhood clearly rang a chord within his heart.