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Michel gave him a sidelong glance. “Dunno. Just felt like drawing one.”
They walked side by side, father and son, on the same beach he’d walked as a boy, with the same green kite leading the way.
“When I go to Eton, will I be able to come home on holidays?” asked Michel.
“I thought you didn’t want to go to Eton.”
“We’ve been talking, Adele and I, and we know that we have to grow up.” He puffed out his chest. “We’ll grow up. And we’ll have our own lives. It’s the way of the world.”
He sounded so much older than his nine years. Edgar almost regretted being the one to give him such a worldly outlook. “If you don’t want to go to Eton, you don’t have to go.”
“I think I do want to go. What’s it like?”
“Some of the boys will be bullies and some will be friends. But you don’t seem to have a problem defending yourself. They might make fun of your French name, though. You could change it to Michael.”
“No,” scoffed Michel. “If they laugh at my name I’ll teach them a lesson.”
“I’m sure you will.” Edgar took the kite string, manipulating the line to make the kite dance in figure eights. “I suffered my share of knocks at Eton. I was teased for being a namby-pamby ducal heir, but then I blinked and suddenly school was over.”
Time moved so swiftly.
He looked back at Mari. She and Adele were walking hand in hand.
In such a brief time she’d transformed his life. Everything she touched blossomed. His children, half wild when they’d arrived, wary and closed, now laughing and open.
His own heart, shuttered and frozen. Now cracked open.
She was the sun breaking through the clouds.
The patch of blue sky opening in his heart.
“They’re talking about Eton,” Adele reported. “I heard Michel mention the school.”
“Perhaps we can convince your father not to separate you.”
Adele shrugged. “Michel and I have been talking and we’ve decided it’s good for him to go. I’ll stay with you.” She placed her hand in Mari’s. “We’ll have lots of adventures, won’t we?”
“We most certainly will. And perhaps you’ll go to a private academy for girls. You’re just as clever as your brother, perhaps even more clever.”
“We’re both good at art and music but I’m much better at sums.”
“So you are. Perhaps you’ll be a mathematician and discover a new theory or two.”
“Or a poetess, like our mother.”
“Have you read any of her poetry?” asked Mari, softly.
“Yes.” Adele nodded, staring out over the sea. “She visited us several times and she always brought a book of her poems. She told us to memorize poetry, just as you have done.”
Mari’s throat clenched. The poor thing. So much sorrow for a young child to bear. Did she know how her mother had died? That she’d taken her own life?
Mari hoped she didn’t know.
“She made me memorize a poem she’d written,” said Adele. “She said it was a poem for me... for us. It was called ‘The Bells of Mary-le-Bow,’ and it began:When you hear the bells of Mary-le-Bow, this my child you will know, that I am watching over you, my heart ringing always, soft andlow...”
Mari placed an arm around her shoulders.
“Do you think she loved us?” Adele squinted at the sea, blinking away tears. “Or were we like a ship’s anchor, weighing her down when she wanted to be free?”
