“I was only told later that during this time Henry asked George if he would give his blessing for a courtship between us. More than once did he ask George.” Catherine fiddled with Timothy’s sleeve, her eyes turned downwards as she recalled her memories. “George refused each request. They may have been friends, but rather naturally, George feared Henry’s affection would pass. He did not trust it to last.”
“Did it pass?” Timothy asked, finding another image entering his mind. It was of the lady who sat in the room yonder, whom he had just danced with, cherishing the touch of her so much.
“It never ended,” Catherine said, looking up as she smiled, revealing eyes that were wet with unshed tears. “A full year passed and he barely ever left my side. In the end, Henry could not wait for George’s blessing anymore. He told me he loved me.” A single tear escaped down Catherine’s cheek.
Timothy rushed to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket and present it to his mother. She dabbed at the tear, drying it quickly.
“One of my greatest memories,” she said sadly. “Within a week, my pleading and Henry’s had persuaded George to give his blessing to a courtship. Within a month after that, Henry asked me to marry him.” Her smile grew wider. “Our years together…I cannot describe the happiness to you, Timothy.”
Timothy was stunned, unable to find words as he stared back at his mother. He’d never even heard a hint that his father had been like him, that he had once been a wandering rogue too.
“Never once did he stray, and he loved me as devotedly as I loved him. The day he died…” Her breath hitched as she pressed the handkerchief to her nose, stopping more tears before they could begin. “His last words were of you and I.”
The truth made Timothy sit back, leaning across the steps. He had been too young when his father passed to really know much of it, or to even know his final words.
“Do not think ill of your father, Timothy, for his roguish ways.”
“How could I?” Timothy asked quietly. “Have I not been the same?”
“Just the same.” Catherine nodded slowly.
“Why did you not tell me?” Timothy asked, looking to his mother pleadingly. “I always thought I had simply grown up to be like my uncle.”
“I always thought you more like your father.” Catherine admitted with a slow nod. “I did not tell you the truth when you were young, because I did not want you to think ill of your father. I did not realize at that point that you were going to adopt his roguish ways too.”
Timothy was out of words. He covered his face, trying to block out the world as a thought consumed him.
“I have always said I was incapable of real love, Mother.” He was startled the thought was uttered by his lips. Perhaps he needed it at that moment, to say something he had feared saying aloud for so long.
“What a notion,” Catherine murmured with alarm. “If you are anything like me, Timothy, then you’ll be surprised by how deep love is. If you are anything like your father, well, then you are capable of more devotion than you realize.”
Timothy blinked, taking in the words. For a minute, he felt like his father was with them, sat on the steps beside him. He might not have been able to see Henry, but he rather felt he knew him a little more, as Henry watched over them.
“I didn’t expect George to blurt out the truth to you,” Catherine said, shaking her head as she turned an angry stare back to the room that they had escaped. “I asked him to keep it a secret. I did not want you to be led by your father’s wandering ways.”
“A little late for that, Mother,” Timothy said with a hollow laugh, turning his eyes on the closed door, just as his mother had done.
So, am I like my uncle? The eternal philanderer. Or am I like my father? Capable of love after all.
“Let us go back into the room, Timothy.” Catherine pleaded with him. “Pray, do not resent me for this secret.”
“Resent you? Mother, I never could.” He reached out and took her hand, knowing if he was in her place he would have kept the secret too. Who wants to tell their young child their father was once a philanderer before he married? It is not something readily uttered, and it had to be a fact that was all too easy to keep a secret.
“Come, let us return.” Timothy pulled Catherine to her feet as she dried the last of her tears. He couldn’t explain his sudden desire to return to the room, all he knew was that he had to be in there.
“I shall have words with George for his loose tongue tomorrow.”
“Then blame the port carafe. I have a feeling it is more to blame than Uncle George’s mind,” Timothy explained with a chuckle as he led his mother back into the room. As they stepped through the door, Catherine smiled at him one last time before she hurried to the corner, attempting to wake the sleeping drunk form of George.
With her gone and Timothy still standing in the doorway, he thought more of what his uncle had said.
“You are so like your father. That same look…at one lady.”
Was Timothy looking at some one in the same way his father looked at his mother, all those years ago?
Timothy’s eyes flitted to Lady Rebecca. Without really making the decision, he found himself walking toward her. She was standing by the piano, turning the sheet music for her mother. Timothy stood by her side, feeling the leap his stomach made the moment Lady Rebecca turned to acknowledge him with a smile.
Is that what this feeling is? Am I falling in love?
