Afternoons were for excursions. They walked the grounds together—all three of them—a practice that had begun cautiously and now felt as natural as breathing. Dominic showed Thomas the kestrel’s nest at the old folly, crouching beside him in the long grass, their two heads—one dark, one fair—bent together over the scattered remains below. He taught the boy to name trees by their bark and to read tracks in the earth. When Thomas tired, he lifted him easily onto his shoulders, and Lorraine followed a few paces behind, her heart so full it almost ached.
Evenings were the most precious of all. They dined together at the small table in the morning room, avoiding the great dining chamber that swallowed both sound and warmth. Afterward, Dominic read aloud—Robinson Crusoe, then tales fromThe Arabian Nights—his deep voice gentling the stories into something safe and close. Thomas often fell asleep before the end, Captain the wooden horse clutched in one hand, his head resting against Lorraine. She and Dominic would remain where they were, the fire low, not touching—not daring to touch, not with the child between them—but exchanging glances that said more than any words.
We look like a family,Lorraine thought one evening, watching Dominic carry a sleeping Thomas toward the nursery, the boy’s fair head slack against his shoulder.We look like the kind of family I once thought I might have.
The thought was dangerous. She knew it. She turned from it, refused to examine it too closely.
It returned all the same—quiet, persistent, impossible to root out.
***
“Miss Weston, when the Hardings come, will I have to go with them?”
The question caught her unprepared.
They were in the nursery, midway through a reading lesson, when Thomas spoke—his voice small but steady, as though he had been turning the thought over for some time before giving it shape.
Lorraine closed the book gently. “The Hardings are your grandparents, Thomas. They are coming a very great distance to meet you.”
“But will I have to go with them? To India?”
“I do not know, my dear. That is something His Grace and your grandparents must decide together.”
“But what if I do not wish to go?” His eyes searched her face. “What if I want to stay here? With you and His Grace?”
Something tightened sharply in her chest.
“Thomas—”
“He reads to me now. Every night. And he showed me the kestrels, and he lets me sit in his study, and he—” His voice wavered. “He is different. He is not sad all the time anymore. And I do not want to leave him, because what if he becomes sad again?”
Lorraine gathered him close, blinking against the sudden sting in her eyes. “Whatever is decided will be because the people who love you are trying to do what is best. And your wishes matter, Thomas. They do.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He studied her for a moment, solemn beyond his years. “Do you think His Grace loves me?”
The question struck her with unexpected force.
“Yes,” she said, steady and certain. “I think he cares for you very much. Even if he does not always know how to show it.”
Thomas nodded. Then, with disarming simplicity: “I think he cares for you too.”
Lorraine stilled. “Thomas—”
“He looks at you as though you are the most important person in the room.” He frowned faintly. “Is that allowed?”
She almost laughed. Almost cried.
“People are permitted to look at one another as they please,” she said, which answered nothing at all.
Thomas seemed satisfied. He returned to his lesson, and Lorraine sat beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her heart unsteady.
What happens when the Hardings come?
The question lingered, inescapable.
