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And now it was just the two of them.
There had been such sorrow in their house.
“I should have been here,” he said, his voice shaky. “I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving you and Mary alone…”
“Mary did not die because you were gone,” Fanny said, though her voice cracked as she spoke. “It was foggy, and the path by the lake was wet with rain. No one could have predicted it.”
Graham had presumed his mother was merely impatient to see him, but he realized now that she must have been worried sick. The last time one of her children had gone riding, she had not come back.
No. He could not think of that now when he was already filled with regret.
“You were so ill this past week,” he said. “I thought I might lose you, too.”
She smiled sadly. “You know, these old bones have been through far too much to go so swiftly,” she said. “And how could I leave you behind when it is only us two? You have no wife to see you through the loss of your mother, only that wretched uncle of yours, who will be salivating already at the thought of getting his grubby hands on our estate and your title. No, I shall not peacefully depart this realm until I see you settled!”
Graham bit his lower lip, trying not to show too much emotion. He was not eager to get into a discussion forhis lack of an heir right at that moment. Still, she was not wrong. He was the head of the household, and she was his sole family. He should be there to console his mother, not the other way around.
“Then we’d best get you up and fed,” he said. “Weren’t you the one demanding to get out of bed?”
“I am quite sick of these rooms,” his mother said. “Yes, although isn’t it too late for supper?”
“I’m sure the cook won’t mind making us something modest,” Graham said. “And, at the very least, I can put together a meal for you. I have grown quite capable in my years as a bachelor.”
“A duke? Cooking?” Her eyebrows rose and she puckered her lips. “Who ever heard of such a thing? Have you no servants in London?”
Graham swallowed. He didn’t want to admit it, but the truth was that he did have a cook. However, while he paid her handsomely, he did not use her services often, only when he had company, which was not often. If Everett or Fairfield stopped in, he would have her cook, but otherwise, he fended for himself. Indeed, at times, she had been called upon to teach him. He kept those details to himself, though, knowing his mother would not approve.
“I assure you, I am capable of making a thing or two,” he said instead.
“I shudder to think of what you might cook,” Fanny laughed. “Very well, then. To dinner?”
* * *
It was already after ten when they sat down to eat, well past any reasonable hour for dining. The cook had already been cleaning up, and thus—in a turn of events quite unfitting for a duke—Graham had heated up some left-over stew. It was a hardy broth, though, which he knew his mother needed after her long days of convalescence.
At first, they spoke of nothing in particular. He caught her up on events in London, on his various dealings with Fairfield and Everett, and on how he’d fared during the Season that year. She fell into the familiar rhythm of recounting old gossip from the village: who was marrying whom, which parties had been nicest that year. Sometimes, they stumbled onto the topic of Mary, but they each steered away of the younger Barnet sibling as much as possible. They did not speak of her death, instead discussing only the good times they had once had together as a family.
It is nice, Graham thought, to be able to look back on Mary with fondness. The ache in his chest was still keen and sharp, and he assumed it was far worse for his poor mother. That she was able to speak Mary’s name at all astounded him, given that the two women had spent nearly every day together. Fanny had loved her daughter dearly, the two of them so alike in both appearance and temperament that it was often remarked upon, even by distant acquaintances.
What would she do now that she was gone? How could he possibly justify leaving her behind?
“So,” she said, scooping up the remnants of her stew. “You have been living a life of bachelorhood in London for quite some time now, and I know you are expecting the question…”
She trailed off, and he gave her a reluctant half-smile. “Out with it, Mother.”
She laughed. “Have you decided when you shall find a wife, Graham?”
He sighed heavily. Given her prior comments, he expected the topic to come up. He leaned back in his chair, stroking his stubble. He still didn't have the foresight to shave; in fact, he'd grown a short beard in the meantime, hemust look quite therake. Fanny took her time, cocking her head to the side to observe her son's expression.
“I have come to admire a young lady,” he said. “Quite unexpectedly, I might add.”
Fanny’s brows rose. “You have?”
“Yes,” he said. “These past few days, in fact. I did not know that such strong feelings could come in the aftermath of such pain, and yet I am starting to believe that it may be possible.”
He paused, and his mother leaned forward. “You can say it, dear. Love?”
His lips thinned as he rubbed at his jaw once again. The act soothed him, somehow, easing the pounding anxiety in his heart. “Perhaps.”
