His mother said nothing, but Robert could see from her wide-eyed gaze that the anger in his voice had touched her, and he hoped it would put her off talking about the topic, at least for a while.
His wife, Elizabeth, had passed away five years before, when Henry was barely more than a baby. Her name choked in his throat with unshed tears, and recalling her face—which he did often, since Henry was the image of his mother—hurt more than he could describe. His mother’s callous remarks cut deep into his soul. He was not moping—he had forgotten how to be happy. Without Elizabeth, life was simply gray—no light, no dark, just an endless gray tunnel of existing. How could he be aught else but sorrowful when his light was no longer there?
His mother was looking out of the window, and Robert turned to the window on his side of the coach, gazing out. The road passed through forested land, and tree-branches extended out into the road, their pale green leaves narrowly missing the coach, bright against the gray sky. He watched them, the motion of the coach lulling his mind into a strange, half-sleeping state. His mind went over the events of the past week.
The excursion from London had not been his idea. His mother had insisted, and he had only conceded to her forceful arguments when she mentioned that Henry would benefit. Henry was a sturdy, healthy child, but he often withdrew into himself, becoming silent and disinterested in eating or in playing or his lessons. Mama insisted that a change of scenery would do her grandson good, and Robert could not help but agree. He had allowed his mother to persuade him to join a family excursion, setting aside his own desire simply to be at peace in the London house as he could not be in the countrymanor. He could not be there without thinking of Elizabeth. That had been their retreat, a place for them alone.
Henry stirred in his sleep and Robert turned to look at him. His thin, delicate face was pale, his eyelashes resting on his cheeks, his sky-blue eyes closed. His neat mouth was exactly like his mother’s, his slight, pointy chin as well. An image of Elizabeth flashed into his mind—pale lips parted in that big smile he adored, her eyes twinkling, blonde hair loose about her shoulders as she and Robert watched Henry sleep. He pushed the thought away, a slight sound of pain escaping him.
Opposite him, his mother was staring out of the window, apparently ignoring him. Robert sighed and looked out of his own window. His mother was even more stubborn than himself—that was something he admired about her. She could also be extremely overbearing—something he hoped he never would become—and she was certain she knew best. He gazed out over the view, trying to imagine what the upcoming month would be like.
People bothering me about trivial matters, being hauled into society by Mother and Charles, trying to care for Henry when nobody gives me a second’s peace.
He shivered.
“When do we reach the inn?” his mother asked him, interrupting his thoughts.
“In two hours' time?” Robert ventured. “Mama, you have better knowledge than me of this journey.”
“Mm.” His mother sounded as though she was reproaching him for that, too. “As far as I recall, the first inn is six hours’ travel outside London.”
“Oh. In which case, we should be there in two hours’ time,” Robert replied, tapping his pocket-watch. They had departed London four hours ago, at nine o’ clock in the morning. Henry had been wakeful for the first two hours, chattering excitedlyabout all the things he wanted to do when they reached their destination. He had soon grown listless and weary, and for the last two hours he had been fast asleep.
“Quite so. Now, I must mention that I expect you to spend time with Lady Amelia, and of course with dear Marina, when we reach our destination. You have not seen her for two years. It would be fitting that you pay her some attention.” His mother sounded reproachful.
“Mama...” Robert tensed. Marina was the daughter of Mama’s best friend, Lady Bardwell, a Countess.
“Son! You must at least spend some time with her. She is quite the toast of society, you know. Well thought-of. And most eligible.” His mother held his gaze with her own.
“Mama!” Robert snapped. He saw her blink in surprise, but he knew that he had not put her off speaking about the topic. She was determined to find a duchess for Clairwood, and she was not going to stop provoking him into anger until she had at least made him dance with someone.
“You hide yourself away for years in that wretched townhouse,” his mother began, sounding hurt. “You never venture into society, and don’t care about how odd people find it. And as for your son...you’re isolating him in that walled-up house. I think...”
“Mama,” Robert said tightly. “Do not presume to speak to me about the care of my son. Counter everything that I do. Insult me if you must. But do not try to question my ability to care for my own child.” His voice was a whisper, as he struggled to keep his rage in check. Beside him, Henry sighed and stirred.
“Why must you always be so contrary?” His mother began, but before she could say anything, Henry stirred again. He blinked once or twice and then he coughed.
“Shh,” Robert soothed, but Henry was already opening his eyes.
“Papa...” Henry murmured. He turned around, reaching sleepily for his father’s hand. Robert’s heart melted at the small, sleepy voice. He squeezed the small, slight fingers that clutched at his hand, the palms overly hot as if the boy was feverish, though it was just the oppressive warmth in the coach.
“Shh, son. It’s all well,” he murmured. “The coach is going a little faster now. See?” He gestured at the window.
“Papa?” Henry asked sleepily. “How long until we stop? I’m hungry.”
Robert smiled. Henry had slept through the time when he and his mother had eaten sandwiches.
“You can have a sandwich now. There is one for you in the picnic-hamper. With cheese...you like cheese?” he asked. As far as he knew, Henry liked cheese. But then, the little boy’s appetite changed so often that he was not sure if he still held the same preferences as he had a few weeks before.
“I feel strange,” Henry murmured. “My head hurts.”
“It’s the coach, son. It’s stuffy in here. Soon, you’ll be able to run about and stretch your legs.” Robert felt tense. He often felt tense when he was caring for Henry—though he had done it for years, he still felt unsure without the help of Mrs. Wellman, the child’s nursemaid.
“Good,” Henry said in a small voice. He yawned, and Robert watched as his eyelids drooped sleepily. Soon, his breathing was smooth and regular again.
“I am going to rest too, Mama,” Robert said pointedly. “Wake me when the coach stops.”
His mother just looked at him blankly. Robert shut his eyes, turning his head away to face the window. He did not hide the fact that he was deliberately sleeping, evading talking any further about the subject his mother had raised. He had no interest in pursuing a debutante just because his mother wished him to. Besides, he thought as he drifted to sleep, he wasthirty years old. While society saw no reason why he should not pursue a young lady of nineteen or twenty, he himself hesitated. Elizabeth would have been the same age as he was, for part of the year a year older. His heart ached and he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for sleep to cloud his mind.
