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Chapter Two
After placing akiss on her daughter’s sleeping form, Attie crept into Sebastian’s bedchamber.
Her son sat in bed, sipping his cocoa. Beside him, Lizzy sat with an open book on her lap, reading a tale of King Arthur in her quiet voice. On seeing her mistress, the nursemaid rose to her feet and dipped into a curtsey.
“Lizzy, dear, why don’t you retire?” Attie suggested. “I can finish Sebastian’s story. We’ve a long day on the road tomorrow, and you need your rest.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
After the maid had closed the door behind her, Attie settled into the chair beside the bed.
“Have you finished your cocoa, dear?”
Sebastian nodded and handed the cup to Attie, and she placed it on the table.
“Come on then, young man,” she said, “let’s tuck you in.”
The boy wriggled under the covers, and Attie stroked his forehead. His breathing grew even, but he remained awake, his eyes wide as they stared at the ceiling. Sebastian was a sensitive child—he had been from the moment he was born. A quiet, thoughtful soul who stared at her with an intense gaze. Though his eyes were the color of his father’s, their expression often mirrored her own, and sometimes she could almost believe she was looking at herself.
“Where’s Papa?” he asked.
“Papa’s in his study.”
“Oh.” He ran his teeth along his lower lip and sighed, and she stroked the back of his hand. “Is Papa sad?”
She nodded. “He was very hurt by what you said earlier.”
A tear spilled onto his cheek, and Attie wiped it away with her thumb.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I don’t hate Papa.”
“I know,” Attie whispered, stroking his cheek. “Papa knows it also.”
“He doesn’t hate me?”
The pitiful expression on her son’s face tore at her heart.
“Of course not,” she said. “He loves you and your sister more than anything in the world. He understands that sometimes when we’re hurting, we say things we don’t mean because we think it will take away the hurt. But it doesn’t. In the end, it only makes it worse.”
“Like George?” Sebastian asked. “Did he say what he did because he was hurting?”
“Perhaps,” Attie replied. “George is your friend, and I suspect he’s sad because he can’t see you.”
“He said horrible things about Papa’s face.”
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Attie said. “Do you remember what I told you about Papa’s face?”
The boy nodded. “You said that he was hurt saving someone’s life, and we should be proud of his face because it reminds us that he’s brave—and that he’s a hero.”
Attie leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
“That’s right,” she whispered. “Your papa has always been my hero.”
The door creaked behind her, and she turned to see her husband standing in the doorway, his eyes glistening in the candlelight.
“Papa!” Sebastian reached toward his father. Devon sat on the bed and embraced his son.
“Papa—I’m sorry!” Sebastian cried. “George said a bad thing, and I’ll tell him so, next time I see him. I want to be brave—just like you.”
