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“But it’s my duty, Mama, to look after you, just as you’ve looked after me,” Henry said.
Sophia laughed. “When you have a wife and a family of your own, your duty will be to them.”
“But I must take care of you,” Henry replied. “Must I not, Adrian?”
“Quite right, young man,” FitzRoy said. “A man must always cherish his mother, for it was she who brought him into the world. But if you are to take care of your mama, then you must keep up with your lessons so that you can find an occupation in which to distinguish yourself.”
Henry’s face fell. “Ugh, lessons.”
“Do you not enjoy lessons?” FitzRoy asked. “Surely you must have a favorite subject of study.”
“Mr. Brown is a poor tutor,” Henry said.
“Hush, Henry!” Sophia chided. “He does his best with Mrs. Huntington’s books.”
“And who is Mr. Brown?” Adrian asked. “Does Mrs. Huntington admit gentlemen?”
“Mr. Brown teaches the children who live at Summerton Hall,” Sophia said, “using reference books from the library.”
“And you don’t like books, Henry?” Adrian asked.
“Not when Mr. Brown reads from them.”
“What does he teach you?”
“Mathematics, English, Latin, history, and modern languages.”
“And do you have a favorite subject?”
Henry’s face lit up into a smile. “I love Italian,” he said. “And music. Mama teaches me music.”
“A rather odd combination,” FitzRoy said.
“Not really,” Sophia said. “Italian terms are used to direct the articulation in music. By the time Mr. Brown gave Henry his first lesson, he already knew a little of the language.”
She leaned forward and ruffled Henry’s hair. “In fact, Mr. Brown said you’re the best Italian scholar he’s ever had, hasn’t he, Henry? And Mr. Brown is not at all prone to exaggeration.”
“But he’s taught me so little!” Henry cried. “I love the Italian language, and wish I could speak it with fluency. I wish I could go to Rome and speak Italian there.”
“Perhaps you’ll learn it at school.”
“I don’t want to go to school,” Henry said. “I’d find it boring.”
FitzRoy laughed. “When I was at school, I did everything I could to avoid having to study.” He glanced at Sophia and she frowned at him. “But then,” he continued, “perhaps I am not a model to which a young man such as yourself should aspire.”
“Oh yes you are,” Henry said. “I wish I was just like you.”
FitzRoy laughed. “You remind me of my brother.”
“I wish I had a brother,” Henry said. “Then I could have someone to play with.”
Sophia felt a pang of guilt at Henry’s words. He’d spent so much of his life surrounded by women. Papa had died when Henry was barely out of the cradle and the boy had no memory of his grandfather. Growing up, he’d lacked the company of children his own age—save the cook’s little girl, who he took his lessons with. Though he was always well behaved when Sophia left him to his own devices while she taught her pupils, she knew he must be lonely.
“I understand how you feel, young man,” FitzRoy said. “I’ve not seen my brother these three years. And though he’s always been something of a rogue, I miss him.”
He sighed and looked out of the window. His smile disappeared and a wistfulness entered his expression.
“Where is your brother?” she asked.
