Henry, emboldened by the change in tone, croaked, “Will you send us away too?”
Oscar froze. “Who told you that?”
Clara shrugged. “That’s what everyone says.”
“I am not sending you away.” Oscar held back a sigh.
Clara did not flinch. “You are always scowling at us.”
Oscar’s dour mood was not directed at them, but he did not know how to make them understand this. He sat on the window ledge, staring at his hands. The memory of his brother—laughing, wild, so full of feeling—knifed through him. He regretted how he had pushed Peter away. Now more than ever.
You, your rules, and your sodding honor.
He pulled himself upright. “I am not sending you anywhere. You will remain here, under my care, until you are old enough to decide for yourselves.”
Clara’s next words landed like stones: “We won’t call you Uncle.”
He tilted his head slightly and studied her. “Why?”
Clara only stared at him, as if challenging him to make her answer his question. It was rebellion, he knew.
“Very well. That is perfectly acceptable.”
She seemed disappointed by this, as if she’d been denied a victory.
Mrs. Tullock, who had been lurking in the hall, bobbed her head in relief. “Will Your Grace have supper now?”
“I will bring it myself,” Oscar said. The children’s heads both jerked in surprise.
In the kitchen, Oscar loaded a tray with bread, cold chicken, and a bracing amount of cherry jam. He had no notion what children liked to eat, but jam seemed universally popular.
When he returned, Clara eyed the tray with suspicion. “Did you poison it?”
“Why would I waste poison on you when you are so determined to starve yourselves?”
This produced a snort from Henry, almost a laugh.
Oscar set the tray between them and waited. For a long time, neither child moved. Then Clara tore off a piece of bread, eyed him the whole time, and ate it. Henry, seeing his sister’s acceptance, reached for the chicken.
Oscar found that he could breathe again.
He sat, silent, as they ate, wondering when it had become so difficult to be in a room with other people. After the plates were empty, Henry crawled onto the window seat beside Oscar and fell asleep, head slumped on his knee. Clara followed a minute later, curling around her brother like a watchful cat.
Oscar watched them. Henry’s toy rabbit—Peter’s, once, passed down with sentimental efficiency—had a missing ear. Clara’s hand rested over Henry’s, protective even in sleep.
Oscar closed his eyes, just for a moment, and in that darkness, he saw his brother’s face: the old, infuriating grin, the way Peter had once said, “You think a Rowson cannot love, Oscar, but you are wrong. It is the only thing we do that matters.”
Oscar had not believed him then. He barely believed it now.
He left the twins on the window seat and returned to his study, not trusting himself to linger.
He poured a glass of scotch, and by the time he finished it, Wilks, the butler, appeared in the doorway.
“Your Grace. There is a visitor. Lady Nancy Gallagher.”
Oscar looked up. “At this hour?”
“She says it is urgent. She has come alone.”
