Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (25 page)

Henrietta took her hand, squeezed with gentle pressure. “Henry’s young. Give him time. You have all his life to do it. He’ll love you before too long.”
 

Anna blinked, washing out her lungs with a deep breath, trying to use the flood of air to push away her leaden mood. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
 

“Of course you should.” Henrietta squeezed again and retracted her hand. “You are trying, so it will come out right. Not trying, that’s the biggest mistake. But you won’t do that, I think.”
 

Henrietta pried a strand of her hair from Will’s fingers, which were heading to his mouth, then glanced down at the open watch. “Time to trade sticks!” she called. Henry handed the prize over, grudgingly accepting the shorter, thinner branch from Laurie. He stomped around a bit, but within moments the two were laughing again.
 

“You make it look easy,” Anna said.
 

“I have help,” Henrietta said. “And I never lost them. I am so glad that you have him back again.” She looked down at William and stroked his hair. “I am fortunate with Percy. I’ve always known that. And you will be too with Alistair,” she said, looking up at Anna with a smile.
 

“I certainly am so far,” Anna admitted. She did not like deceiving Henrietta. The longer she knew her, the more she wished they could be cousins in truth. It was all too easy to love her.
 

All was quiet when Anna and Henry returned to Rushford House, but that didn’t mean Lord and Lady Fairchild weren’t home. Wary, lest she spur Henry into another tantrum and spoil everyone’s quiet, Anna nudged along her heavy-eyed boy. “Upstairs,” she whispered. He was too tired to resist, shuffling along beside her, half asleep. If she was careful, she could put him into bed for a nap.
 

He stumbled on the second step, but she caught him and lifted him up, letting him sag against her shoulder, his cheek warm against her neck, his sweep of dark hair caressing her. She bit her lip, fighting a sudden onslaught of tears. He was so much bigger now than the bundle that had been stolen from her arms—back then he’d been about the size of a loaf of bread, and not much heavier either. There was weight to him now, sturdiness in his limbs, though now they dangled limp around her waist.
 

A moment to get control, then she climbed upwards again, treading softly down the hall to the back stairs that would take her up to the nursery. Halfway there, a door opened, putting Lord Fairchild in her path. He raised a finger to his lips, then closed the door behind him with a soft click. His wife’s door, Anna realized. Before she could stop herself, she scrutinized his clothing: buttons, cravat, jacket. Perfectly tidy, but that didn’t mean—

“Can I assist you?” He offered his arms, but she couldn’t hand him Henry. This half-conscious embrace was too precious.
 

“I don’t want to disturb him,” she whispered back.
 

“At least let me help you with the doors,” he said, moving along beside her. He opened the door to the stairs and followed her up, stepping softly, but not as softly as she. Anna already knew where the treads creaked from stealing upstairs most nights to sit and watch her sleeping son. When he was asleep, she could smooth his hair without him ducking away from her hand, bring his soft paw to her own cheek, and count the pulse that beat at his wrist. He couldn’t fight or scorn her when he was sleeping.
 

Lord Fairchild opened the door at the top of the stairs, then the door to Henry’s room. Lucy was there, putting away some folded laundry. She hastened to draw back the bed covers. Anna set Henry down, blocking Lucy with her back so she could arrange his arms and hear him sigh as he sank into the pillow.
 

“I’ll take off his shoes,” Lucy said, pushing forward. “You can leave him with me.”
 

Dismissed, Anna turned for the stairs. She was halfway down when Lord Fairchild spoke, his voice low. “My dear, you have a tear drying on your cheek.”
 

She turned, frightened a little by Lord Fairchild’s level glance. He came down a few more steps, stopping three above. “It’s nothing,” she said, brushing her cheek with the back of her hand.
 

He was silent, not needing to contradict her lie. They both knew. Without a word he sat down on the stair, motioning her to do the same.
 

“Lucy—” Anna began.

“Won’t find us. She has a novel sticking out from under that pile of Henry’s trousers,” Lord Fairchild said. “We could go to the drawing room, but you seem more comfortable here. Is it the portrait of my grandfather there that makes you freeze? I would too, if I weren’t used to ignoring him.”
 

That won a reluctant smile from her.
 

“Please sit down,” he said.
 

She did, carefully tucking her skirts under her.
 

Lord Fairchild wove his fingers together, leaving the thumbs free to tap against each other, a quick, irregular beat. His nails were smooth and shaped, his cuffs falling over his wrists just as they ought. He watched his thumbs, perhaps counting time, perhaps choosing words, before he looked at her and spoke. “It is hard to lose a child. And more difficult than you think to get them back.”
 

“How do you know?” she asked, her voice thick with the effort of controlling it.
 

“I never met my daughter Sophy until she was ten. She came to me when her mother died. Hated me for years.” He smiled, the way a man does to shrug off pain.
 

“Does she still?” Anna asked, both curious and afraid of his answer.
 

“I don’t know. She has more reason now. I didn’t listen when she told me she didn’t want to marry Alistair.”
 

Anna didn’t know how she bore up under his penetrating eyes, but she kept her face smooth, even as her hands went cold. She was too afraid to ask if he knew the truth about her engagement, so she asked, “Why didn’t you? It would have been easy for you to help her.”
 

“Yes, if I only had one person to please. I was trying to support my wife. The fact that I neither knew or trusted Bagshot simplified matters.”
 

“That was a mistake. He can be trusted,” Anna said.
 

“I hope you’re right. Sophy is dear to me.”
 

“And your wife?” she asked, before she could stop herself. By all accounts, they despised each other, but he had come from Lady Fairchild’s room just now.

“Have you ever—” he shook his head, then looked down at his hands. The shape of something important lurked in his unspoken words.
 

“Made a mistake?” Anna filled in. She wanted to know.
 

He looked at her carefully. “What do you know of mistakes?”
 

She dropped her eyes. “I’ve made a few.”
 

She could almost hear his thoughts, fitting together in the silence. Anna pressed her lips together, bracing herself for what he might see. Maybe he’d throw her out, but her instinct—and she was wagering heavily on that—said that he would understand.
 

“I remember Anthony Morris,” he said at last. “Was he a mistake?”
 

“One of them.” She swallowed. “I’m trying to do better.”
 

“So am I,” he said. They passed a smile between them the way weary friends pass around a drink, but then Lord Fairchild asked, “Does reform include Captain Beaumaris?”
 

“He’s a perfect gentleman,” she said at last. “Much too good for me, but I’m not in a position to refuse his help, not yet. I promise you needn’t worry. I think too much of him to do him any harm.”
 

“Then you don’t intend to marry him?”
 

Her cheeks burned, lighting up her neck, even her ears. “I told him myself I wouldn’t serve him such an underhand trick.”
 

“Even if it was what he wanted?”
 

Anna banished her blush with a laugh. “He likes me, but I’m not afraid of that. Besides, there is a great difference between what we want and what we can have. You and I both know that. Look at our children.”
 

“True. I’m in no position to give advice,” he said. “I’ve been the single greatest impediment to my own happiness. Don’t you be.”
 

“I’ll be careful,” Anna said. Like him, she’d given herself too much pain already. “Thank you for telling me.” She rose and smoothed her skirts, but Lord Fairchild stopped her before she could proceed down the stairs.
 

“Mrs. Morris?”
 

“Yes?” Anna turned, her skirts gathered in one hand.
 

“Careful isn’t what I meant you to be.”
 

Alistair had been gone long enough that Anna was expecting a letter. Every day she tried not to wait for the arrival of the post, or be disappointed when it brought nothing for her. She’d sent him one already, enclosing the promised lock of hair, but unless one came from him she couldn’t write again. To inundate him with letters that weren’t returned would be embarrassing.
 

The trouble was, even though she wouldn’t let herself write again, she was always composing imaginary letters, telling him of Lord and Lady Arundel’s departure, Jasper’s new horse (she was no judge of such matters, but Lord Fairchild was sufficiently enthusiastic), and the handsome politician who’d tried to flirt with his aunt. Lady Fairchild hadn’t noticed. It would have been interesting to watch if Lord Fairchild had been there, more interesting certainly than the flagging conversation she’d failed to revive with her own dinner partner.
 

Anna sighed. One didn’t need to talk when one could simply display an expanse of bosom. The gown she’d worn last evening was an excellent alternative to speech. She’d opted for better coverage today, since it was time to brace herself for another assault from Henry’s grenadiers. The mark below her collar bone from their first battle had finally faded away, and she had no interest in acquiring another.
 

“Charge!” Henry roared, swiping at her line with his favorite hussar, knocking over the fortifications she’d dutifully erected from his basket of toy bricks.
 

“Charge!” he said again, scattering bricks across the carpet and into the corners. Henry had picked up the word from Henrietta’s husband, Lord Arundel, who liked playing with his small boys, but couldn’t separate himself from his interest in history. Every game became a re-enactment of some famous battle. Young Laurence had picked up a name or two (he called his hussars after the late General Moore, but pronounced it like he was asking for another biscuit). Henry hadn’t gotten past his one command.
 

Everything was a charge now, from his flight down the stairs to the swooping of his breakfast spoon. This morning, when Anna rushed down to the hall to stop Henry from swinging his favorite stick, she couldn’t help noticing Lord Fairchild firmly closing his library door. Lady Fairchild hadn’t risen yet, but Anna knew she could look forward to another quarter hour of pointed pronouncements about managing boys and the failings of Henry’s nurse. What Lady Fairchild said privately to her husband (or, more likely, her maid), Anna could only guess. Now that Henrietta was gone and the days were cooler, they spent much more time at the house, where Anna felt like a bigger nuisance each passing day.
 

“You’ve won again!” Anna exclaimed tiredly, surveying the litter of toys cast about the floor. Served her right for giving Lucy the morning off.
 

“Did I do it well?” Henry asked, looking up. The earnest question and the hungry look in his eyes stopped her cold.
 

“Of course!” she said quickly.
 

“You can do better,” he said, settling back again, frowning at her half-hearted attempt to re-pile the bricks.
 

“You’re right,” Anna said. “I should do this properly, shouldn’t I? A stronger wall?”
 

Henry nodded.
 

“Perhaps a tower here?”
 

Henry’s eyes sharpened, his face moving closer to the bricks as she stacked them higher.
 

“This could be a cannon,” Anna said, laying a narrow brick sideways on what might pass, to the highly imaginative, as a parapet.

“That’s good,” Henry said, adding another sideways brick to the battery.
 

“Who will fire it?” Anna asked, reaching for the scattered soldiers. “This one here?”
 

It took longer to choose a suitable figure. Henry had no engineers or artillery, but was happy to eventually settle on a rifleman—the subtleties of uniforms, divisions and brigades being beyond him, though at this rate his ignorance wouldn’t last long. Anna had never seen him so intent, or, as they raced around the room on their knees gathering bricks, so content in her company. They piled up the bricks, adding more towers, thicker walls, and plenty of makeshift guns, until none were left and Henry was back on all fours, peering under the bed, hoping to find a couple more strays. Twenty minutes must have passed with the two of them in complete accord, laughing even. Stranger still, Anna felt at ease, buoyant without the ballast of her usual worries. Following him with warm eyes, Anna waited for Henry to return to the rug. He did, but he didn’t launch immediately into his assault, though the tin hussar was ready in his fist.
 

“Is it good enough?” Anna asked, for he was scrutinizing the fortress—a formidable objective now—with a critical eye.
 

Henry glanced from the foot-high walls to the hussar in his hand, and the dozen two-inch soldiers he had left on his side of the rug. “What if he can’t do it, Mama?” he asked.
 

Reassurance died on her tongue. Henry’s eyes were serious and wide. Guiltily, for she knew she was doing no good to herself or her boy, she lied. “He’ll manage it, love. He’s so brave.”