Page 77 of Duke of Sapphire

“I know,” she said.

That was all. She said it into his hair and held on, and Ian let himself be held.

They sat like that for a long moment. The mare blew through her nose. A groom appeared at the far gate and Henry looked at him and the man quietly withdrew.

After a while, Ian pulled back. He wiped his face on his sleeve. He did not look ashamed of his tears. He looked tired.

“I want to go inside,” he said.

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Let’s.”

She brought him to the smaller drawing room, the one off the hall that faced the garden, because it was warmer and the light was softer and it had none of the formal grandeur of the rooms upstairs. She settled him on the settee nearest the fire and sat beside him.

“Tell me something good,” she said.

Ian looked at the fire. “What kind of something good?”

“About your father. Something you love to remember.”

He was quiet for a moment. She did not push.

“He took me fishin' once,” Ian said at last. “Just the two of us. He said it was men’s work.” The corner of his mouth moved. “I was five.”

“Five is a perfectly appropriate age for men’s work.”

“That’s what he said.” Ian pulled his knees to his chest. “We went up the burn behind the east field. He gave me me own rod. He said I had to be quiet or we would frighten the fish.” He paused. “I wasnae quiet. I fell in.”

“What happened?”

“Da laughed so hard he scared all the fish himself.” Ian’s voice had gone soft. “He waded in and fished me out and he was still laughin'. He wrung out my coat and said—" He stopped. He swallowed. “He said that was the most impressive fishing he’d ever seen. That I’d caught meself.”

Charlotte held perfectly still.

“We didnae catch any fish,” Ian said. “We went back empty-handed and Mam was waiting at the door and she looked at us—both soaked—and Da said we’d had magnificent sport.” He rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. “She didnae believe us. But she had Mrs. Wick bring us some cocoa anyway.”

The fire crackled. Ian leaned a little into Charlotte’s side.

She heard the quiet step in the hall. Henry. She knew his tread by now, the particular rhythm of it. He appeared in the doorway, looked at the two of them on the settee, and she watched him decide, quietly, not to retreat.

He came in. He sat in the wing chair nearest the fire, not across from them but beside—close enough to be present without making anything of it.

“He sounds like an excellent fisherman,” Charlotte said to Ian.

“He was terrible,” Ian said, with great affection. “He never caught anythin'. He said it was the burn’s fault.”

“It was probably the burn’s fault.”

“Mam said it was the singin’,” Ian said. “Da always sang when he fished.” He glanced at Henry. “Did you know that? That he sang?”

Henry looked at the fire. “Yes,” he said. “He was entirely tuneless.”

Ian sat up slightly. “Ye fished with me da?”

“Once. When we were young. He sang the entire time, and I asked him to stop, but he told me it was a Highland tradition, and I told him he was from Derbyshire.” Henry’s mouth curved slightly at the corner. “He claimed it didn’t matter.”

Ian stared at him. “Ye never said ye kent him like that. Before.”

“No,” Henry said. “I didn’t.”