Instead, he said, “You know, the French army trains its soldiers to sleep on command. They call it ‘discipline of the mind’.”
Henry looked up, momentarily distracted by the promise of military rigor. Clara rolled her eyes, but said, “We’re not French.”
Oscar allowed himself the hint of a smile. “Thank God for that.”
Henry sniffled. “If we sleep, will Mama come back?”
“No.” Oscar could not bring himself to sugar-coat it. “But if you don’t sleep, you’ll both make yourselves ill. And then you’ll haunt this house forever, which I am given to understand is deeply unpleasant.”
Clara’s mouth twisted. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “Terrified.”
This seemed to satisfy her. She flopped onto her side, pulling Henry with her, and the sobbing tapered into an occasional whimper.
Oscar exhaled, then realized he’d done it aloud.Victory through attrition.He started to rise, but Clara spoke again, voice flat and direct:
“Is she coming back?”
He stared. “Who?”
Clara glanced at Henry, who answered for her. “Mama’s friend.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “The lady who smells like strawberries.”
Oscar blinked. “Lady Nancy?” he said, before he could stop himself.
Clara nodded. “She said she’d come back. Did you send her away?”
“I—” Oscar had no prepared answer for this. “She was only visiting. She may return, if she wishes.”
Henry’s lower lip began to tremble. “She’s going to leave us, too.”
“Did we do something wrong?” Clara’s eyes were wide now, not with fear but with a terrible, intelligent clarity. “Is that why everyone leaves?”
Oscar swallowed hard.You utter coward!You have spent your life cutting people out for less, and now here you are, confronted with the results.The children needed structure, yes. But what they needed more was something he could never provide—a mother’s warmth. Fate had been thorough in her cruelty.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at Henry, who was clutching that small wooden knight. The sight of it now punched through Oscar’s chest like a musket ball as heremembered the battles they’d fought together, the way Peter would always make the knight win, no matter the odds.
He could see the shape of his brother in the way Henry held himself: stubborn, fragile, all sharp corners and hidden hopes. The past rushed back—his last conversation with Peter, the harsh words, the unfinished forgiveness. Then their mother’s death. Then the devastating news, no more than a year later, that Peter was gone, too.
Oscar shot to his feet, the shock of memory too much to bear. “You have done nothing wrong. Do you understand? No one is leaving you. No one.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He strode out of the room, down the hallway, through the darkened halls of Scarfield Manor, haunted now by more than ghosts.
He reached his study, closed the door, and let himself lean hard against it. He stared at his hands, surprised to find them shaking. He poured a fresh inch of gin, then stared at the blank page on his desk. For once, the words came easily. He wrote:
Lady Nancy,
Return to Scarfield at once. We must speak.
CHAPTER 6
“Isee Lady Burnham’s footman has eloped with the cook. Again. ‘Dreadful Temptations in the Pantry’,” Nancy’s mother, Moira, read, relishing each syllable. “The footman was last seen in Southwark, wearing only a cravat and a single shoe. The authorities are combing the area for clues and clothing. Nancy, do you hear this?”
Nancy sat perfectly still, her spoon orbiting the same patch of tea. “I hear,” she said. “I simply refuse to engage.” Her mind was filled with worry, trepidation, and all manner of thoughts about Scarfield.
Moira’s green eyes narrowed. “You are not yourself this morning, darling.”
“That is untrue. I am precisely myself.”
