The walk to the study seemed longer than usual. The house felt watchful, its silence thick with anticipation.
She knocked.
“Enter.”
Dominic stood by the window, his back to her, outlined against the dimming light.
“You wished to see me, Your Grace.”
“Close the door.”
She did so. The latch sounded loud in the quiet.
He did not turn at once.
“What did you tell him?” he said at last. “This afternoon. What did you tell Thomas about me?”
“The truth. As far as a child may understand it.”
He turned then. His expression was tightly held, emotion barely contained.
“You told him I was sad. Frightened. That looking at him causes me pain.”
“I told him you loved his father,” she said steadily. “That losing him wounded you. That seeing Thomas recalls that loss.” She held his gaze. “I told him the truth. Would you have preferred I lie?”
“I would have preferred—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair and turning away. “I do not know what I would have preferred. I do not seem to know anything at all.”
“He wondered if he was worth the hurting.” Lorraine’s voice softened, despite herself. “He is six years old, and he asked whether loving him was worth the pain it might bring. What was I to say?”
“I don’t know!” The words broke from him, raw and uncontrolled. He turned back to her, and now she saw it—the fracture beneath the composure, the strain beneath the anger. “I do not know what you should have said. I do not know what I ought to do. I do not know how to—” His voice faltered. “Goodness, Lorraine. I heard him. I heard him ask if I wished he were not here. And the worst of it is that for a moment—only a moment—I thought that it might be easier if he were not. Easier if I did not have to see William’s eyes looking at me every day, asking what I did to him.”
The words fell between them, stark and unguarded.
“You were not the one who let him die,” she said quietly.
“I hesitated. I froze. Three seconds that cost twenty-one lives.”
He stopped, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he lowered them, his composure had gone.
“He was dying. In my arms. And he looked up at me—with those same eyes—and said,Take care of him. Promise me.” His voice roughened. “And I did. I swore I would see to his son—that he would be protected, that he would never want for anything.”
“And you have. Thomas wants for nothing—”
“Nothing except a father!” The word tore from him like a wound reopening. “Nothing except someone who can look at him without flinching. Nothing except what I promised and cannot give. Because every time I try—every time I think perhaps I can do this—I see William’s face, and I feel his blood on my hands, and I am back in that ravine, listening to him die because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’tenough.”
He was shaking now, his whole body trembling with the force of emotions held too long in check. Lorraine crossed the room without thinking, without considering propriety or consequences or any of the reasons she should keep her distance.
She reached him and took his hands in hers.
He went rigid, his breath catching, but he did not pull away.
“Listen to me.” Her voice was steady now. “William Harding died because of a war. Because of confusion and violence and things no man could command. He did not die because you lost three seconds.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know you.” She tightened her hold, compelling his attention. “I know you would have given your life for his, had it been possible. I know you have spent four years carrying a burden that was never yours to bear alone. And I know—” Hervoice softened. “—that your friend would never have wished to see you destroyed by it.”
Something in his expression gave way.
