That night, he did not pace.
He sat in the library—in her chair—and read by the fire until the lines blurred. His thoughts returned, again and again, to the same things: walking paths, grief borne rather than buried, the brief, electric brush of her arm against his.
Lorraine.
And when he finally went to bed, he slept without dreams for the first time since Spain.
Chapter Ten
“Miss Weston, why does His Grace look at me like that?”
Lorraine’s hand stilled on the page she had been turning. They were in the nursery, working through a history lesson—though Thomas had been distracted all morning, his attention wandering far from Henry VIII and his six wives.
“Like what, sweetheart?”
Thomas chewed his lip, thinking. “Like he’s sad. But also, like he’s frightened. Like when he looks at me, he sees something that hurts.”
Lorraine felt something tighten in her chest. She had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that Dominic’s increased presence would ease Thomas’s uncertainty. And in many ways, it had. The boy laughed more easily now, sought him out rather than shrinking away. But children noticed what adults tried to conceal.
“His Grace cares for you very much,” she said carefully. “But he carries a great deal of grief, Thomas. For things that happened before you came here.”
“Because of the war?”
“Yes. Because of the war.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, considering this.
“Jenny says he was different before,” he said at last. “That he used to laugh more. That the war changed him.”
Lorraine made a mental note to speak with Jenny. But she did not contradict it.
“War does change people,” she said gently. “It shows them things that are not easily forgotten.”
“My papa was there too,” Thomas said, his voice small. “With His Grace. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because they were friends, and Papa died, and His Grace said he would take care of me.”
Lorraine’s chest ached. He was too young for this—too young to be fitting together the fragments of grief left by others.
“Yes,” she said softly. “They were close friends. And when your papa died, His Grace wished to make sure you were safe.”
“But he doesn’t—” Thomas faltered, his face tightening with effort. “Sometimes, when he looks at me… it’s like he wishes I wasn’t here. Not in a mean way. Just… like it would be easier.”
“Oh, Thomas.” She gathered him into her arms, and he came at once, pressing close. “That is not what he wishes. I promise you.”
“Then why?” he asked against her shoulder. “Why does he look at me like I hurt him?”
Lorraine held him, choosing her words with care.
“Because you have your father’s eyes,” she said at last. “And when he looks at you, he remembers his friend. He remembers how much he loved him—and how much it hurt to lose him. Sometimes that remembering is more than he knows what to do with.”
Thomas pulled back slightly. “He loved my papa?”
“Very much.”
“And seeing me makes him remember?”
“Yes.”
Thomas frowned, thinking. “So… it’s not that he doesn’t like me?”
