He looked left, then right, then up at her, his face set with determination. “When is Uncle Oscar coming here?”
Nancy felt the blow in her gut. She smiled—bravely, she thought—and patted the bench beside her. Henry climbed up, swinging his legs, his eyes still locked on hers.
“He’s very busy in London,” she said. “Lots of work.”
Henry nodded, considering. “But he will come?”
He will not come. He does not want you. He never did.
“He will come when he can,” she lied.
Henry accepted this, but Nancy could see the doubt coiling around his tongue. “All right,” he said, but did not jump off. He sat quietly, feet bumping the bench, hands knotting into the fabric of his trousers.
She ruffled his hair, then regretted it when she dislodged a small caterpillar onto her skirt. Henry rescued the creature with a sort of reverence, then scampered back to the fray.
Nancy watched him go. She wondered how many days she could keep up the pretense, how long before Clara or Henry realized that their little family was, in fact, not a family at all. That the great experiment of love and trust had failed before it even started.
You always knew it was a fiction. Why mourn it now?
Because it had begun to feel less like fiction and more like a possible future. Because for a week or a month or even a single night, she’d allowed herself to believe Oscar might choose her, not out of duty, but out of wanting.
Nancy pressed her fist into her sternum, as if she could force her heart to shrink back to its proper, manageable size.
She sat there, motionless, for some time—until the sound of footsteps on gravel signaled the approach of the butler, a man named Flint who wore his livery with a severity usually reserved for undertakers.
He bowed, managing to radiate disapproval without ever moving his face. “A caller for you, Duchess,” he said. “She is in the drawing room.”
Nancy blinked. “A caller? Here?”
“Indeed,” Flint replied, not blinking. “A lady.”
Nancy wondered, briefly, if it was a mistake. Then she realized who it must be.
She stood, shaking grass from her hem. “Thank you, Flint. Please keep an eye on the children.”
“Already done, Your Grace,” said Flint, with the faintest curl of lip.
She climbed the steps to the house, and when she reached the drawing room, she found her mother standing at the window. The tartan shawl Moira wore made her look more formidable than usual, as if she had come prepared for a war and not a parlor visit.
Moira turned when Nancy entered. “Darling, you look half-starved.” She crossed the rug, enveloping Nancy in an embracethat was both fierce and perfumed with some fiercely Scottish spirit.
“I am quite well,” Nancy lied, which fooled neither of them.
Moira released her, but kept her at arm’s length. “Your letter was a puzzle. You wrote as if you were on the run from debtor’s prison, not merely relocating to a house with a better view.”
Nancy attempted a smile. “You know how I hate to overburden you with drama.”
“Drama is the only thing that keeps me upright at my age. What is going on?” Moira’s green eyes were sharper than usual.
Nancy hesitated, considering whether to say nothing, or everything, or something in between.
Moira would not wait. “If you have run off from Scarfield, I need to know whether I must poison him or simply slander him to death at the next Women’s Group meeting.”
“It’s not—” Nancy’s composure broke. She sank into the nearest chair. “I left him, Mama. I left him because he had a mistress. And because he made a fool of me.”
Moira’s mouth rounded into a perfect O. “You must be joking. Oscar Scarfield? A mistress?”
Nancy barked a laugh. “It is not so hard to believe. He has the practice of years.”
