I am sorry,he thought.William—I am sorry. I am trying. I do not know how to do this.
There was no answer.
There never was.
At length, Dominic turned away. He retreated to his chambers and did not sleep until the first light of dawn.
Chapter Five
“Mama! Mama, please—!”
Lorraine was out of bed before she was fully awake, her feet finding the cold floor, her body moving toward the sound before her mind had quite caught up. The cry came again—high, terrified, the raw edge of a child’s nightmare cutting through the silence of the sleeping house.
She did not stop for a wrapper. Did not think of a candle. She knew the path to Thomas’s room by now, had walked it often enough in the week since her arrival—checking on him before retiring, pausing at his door to listen for the steady rhythm of sleep, reassuring herself that he was safe.
The corridor lay in darkness, touched only by the faint grey wash of moonlight at either end. Lorraine moved quickly, her bare feet silent upon the carpet, and pushed open Thomas’s door without knocking.
“Thomas. Thomas, my dear—wake up.”
He was tangled in the sheets, thrashing, his small face contorted with terror. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His eyes were open, yet unseeing—fixed upon some horror visible only to him.
“Mama,” he sobbed. “Don’t go. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me—”
Lorraine crossed to the bed and gathered him into her arms without hesitation. He was burning with heat, damp with sweat, his heart beating wildly against her chest. She held him close, rocking him gently, her voice low and steady.
“You are safe. I am here. You are safe, Thomas. I shall not leave you.”
Slowly—very slowly—the rigid fear in his body began to ease. His breathing, which had come in sharp, uneven gasps, steadied. His hands, which had pushed blindly against her, found the fabric of her nightgown and clung to it.
“Miss Weston?” His voice was small, uncertain, still thick with sleep and tears.
“Yes, my dear. I am here.”
“I had a dream.” He shuddered. “Mama was there, and then she was gone, and I could not find her. Everyone kept saying she had gone away, but I knew—I knew she would not leave me. She promised—”
His voice broke. Lorraine felt the sting of tears she would not permit to fall.
“I know,” she said softly. “I know. Dreams can be very cruel. They bring back what we have lost, and make us lose it all over again.”
Thomas drew back a little, looking up at her with tear-bright eyes. In the dim light, he seemed impossibly young—not the guarded, watchful child she had first met, but simply a little boy who had lost so much and could not understand why.
“Do you have bad dreams too?” he whispered.
Lorraine thought of her own—of loss, of doors closing, of a life that could not be reclaimed.
“Sometimes,” she said. “I think everyone does. Even grown people.”
“Even His Grace?”
The question gave her pause. She thought of the shadows beneath the Duke’s eyes, the faint scent of whisky at odd hours, the restless energy that seemed never to settle.
“I expect so,” she said carefully. “His Grace has seen a great deal that would trouble anyone’s sleep.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, “Is that why he does not like me? Because I give him bad dreams?”
“Oh, Thomas.” Lorraine gathered him close again, her heart aching. “You do not trouble anyone’s sleep. And His Grace does not dislike you. He is… very sad, I think. And sometimes, when people are sad, they do not know how to show that they care.”
“Mama was sad sometimes,” Thomas murmured against her shoulder. “But she still held me.”
