She gave him a small, steady nod. “Your mother seems weaker than when I last saw her.”
He swallowed slowly. “Every day she fades a little more. I hate to burden her with this… with the truth about Bryon.”
“It was in the newssheets,” Olivia said. “How have you kept it from her?”
He winced. “The household staff is shielding her. Her eyesight has deteriorated to the point that she can no longer read the newssheets herself. I suspect her maid conveniently skipped over that article.”
Olivia’s expression was one of concern. “You carry so much on your shoulders, Evander. But you are not alone.”
Their gazes met for a moment longer than necessary. And in that fleeting exchange, Evander allowed himself a single, silent hope—that one day, her words might mean more than comfort alone.
His mother’s voice pierced the quiet space between them. “What are you two conspiring about in hushed tones?”
Evander halted mid-step and turned slowly to face her. Olivia did the same, her expression smoothing into polite composure, though her hand lingered lightly at his elbow in silent support.
“I have something to tell you, Mother,” Evander said. “And I fear it will not be easy for you to hear.”
His mother’s brow creased slightly. “Are you and Olivia engaged at last?” she asked, a hopeful gleam momentarily brightening her eyes. “Because if so, I must say?—”
“No. No, no... absolutely not,” Evander said quickly, hands rising in an almost panicked gesture.
Olivia turned her head sharply, her eyes wide with mock offense as she bumped his shoulder. “Truly, Evander. A simplenowould have sufficed.”
He gave a sheepish chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “My apologies. I meant no slight, I assure you.”
“I know,” Olivia replied, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. “Still. A little less horror in your tone next time, perhaps.”
Evander gave her a grateful glance, then turned back to his mother. His humor faded as the gravity of the moment returned. “Mother... it’s about Bryon.”
At once, the lines on her face deepened. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “What about Bryon?”
Evander drew a slow, steadying breath, though it did little to ease the heaviness in his chest. “Illness swept through his ship on his journey to India, and he did not survive.”
His mother stared at him, unmoving. The silence stretched for several long seconds.
“Are you certain?” she asked at last, her voice a mere whisper.
“I am.”
For a moment, she remained very still. Then her gaze dropped to her lap, and Evander saw the telltale glimmer of moisture in her eyes just before the tears began to fall in earnest.
He crossed the room in an instant and dropped to his knees beside her, reaching for her trembling hand.
“I’m here, Mother,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not alone.”
Olivia appeared at his side. She drew a dainty handkerchief from her reticule and held it out. His mother accepted it and dabbed at her cheeks, though the tears kept coming.
The parlor fell into a hush, broken only by the sound of her unsteady breathing and the tick of the long clock by the wall.
After a long silence, his mother turned to the maid sitting quietly in the corner. Her voice was raw but composed. “I wish to retire to my bedchamber.”
The maid stood at once and crossed the room.
Evander squeezed his mother’s hand. “Allow me to escort you.”
She withdrew her hand slowly. “No. I wish to be alone.”
“But—”
