“Why not?” Alfie moaned. “Atlas,please? Surely you can’t betoobusy.” The boy would bounce himself right out of his seat.
God, he wanted to say yes. “Only if your mother agrees.”
Clara’s cheek bulged out as she chewed her bread, and she glared into the distance until she swallowed. “I’ll consider it.”
His mother stood, gathering the items of their small repast.
“Alfie, darling, I think it’s time we return to the house for your lessons.”
“Awwww.” Alfie sank low in his seat. “Don’t wanna.”
She nudged him upward and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Focus well, and we’ll spend an extra hour in the orchard today. You can climb all you wish.”
Alfie’s drooping steps perked up, and Atlas’s mother swept him out the door with a parting wink at Atlas and Clara.
With the click of the closed door, Clara’s chair scooted across the floor, and several inches appeared between him and her. She finished her food quickly and stood, brushed her hands on her skirts and disappeared into another room.
Atlas threw his bread down. A marriage of convenience, that’s what they shared. Heknewthat. Knew also that she didn’t truly needhim. She needed his name. His family. His home. He had nothing to do with what she needed.
Her, however… he had rather begun to need her. Had not been able to shake that unexpected physical attraction that had flamed between them in the first days of their acquaintance, that had built into something sweet in the first weeks of their marriage.
He pushed his palms into his thighs to stand, allowing his fingers to massage the tortured muscle with a groan.
No, notneedher. Couldn’t be that. It was just that she always looked so lovely. And the sunsets had all turned gray these days. And sky reflected in the mirrored surface of the lake not as blue or bright. Fuzzy sheep and jolly cows and beautiful thoroughbreds offered considerably less joy than they’d used to. But the brief moments he pretended love to Clara—miracles, each one. The brightest, most beautiful spots in his day. Because the flush that rushed across her fair skin was deeper than a rose. And the sparks in her eyes when he’d pushed a bit too far more unfathomable than shooting stars. And the scent of her when he kissed her—temple, cheek, the butter-soft curls on the top of her head—more fragrant than a field of wildflowers.
He snorted. Where were all these pretty words when he needed to write a song? When he sat down at a pianoforte, the words quite drained away. Like making love to Clara, he’d not truly appreciated them until he no longer had them.
He hummed a happy tune to cast some yellow about the room and returned to his work. The space smelled of wood shavings and paint and every bit of it looked fresh and new. Light filtered through the window, but as he set to work, actually set to work this time, that light quickly faded to gray. Hecompleted task after task until he’d conquered the list Clara had given him and the navy blue of dusk cast him in darkness.
Done. He was done here. Two rooms to go, and those, too, would soon fall to the quick progress he and Clara made daily.
Done soon. And then…
He’d start with Paris first. Revisit some of the roads and fields he’d marched across the last time he’d been there, see beauty in a scarred land’s healing. If the land wasn’t cannon blasted any longer, he would not be either. Then he’d go to the Netherlands, naturally, then Italy. Perhaps Germany after that. He’d like to see the Alps.
Alfie would like the Alps, would see their reputed heights as a crowning challenge. His eyes would glow with gleeful greed to climb those crags. And Atlas would have to stick him underneath one arm and run him far away to keep him safe.
He shook his head. Alfie standing beside him at the base of the Alps? Would never happen. He was safe here. With Clara. And Atlas needed to go.
Perhaps, when he returned, his nightmares would be gone, and the shadows that haunted his days banished. He would be no burden for them, then. He could stay then.
If they wished him to.
He eased to the floor and leaned against a wall, pulling a nearby knife and hunk of wood to him. He found the form of a soldier and waited for black to claim the sky.
Fourteen
December 22, 1822
In the far corner of the room, no pillows and quilt offered a pitiful makeshift bed for a giant. Clara rubbed the sleep from her eyes and swung her feet to the floor. Never any trouble leaving her warm bed these days. It wasn’t Atlas warm, after all, and that seemed to be the only kind of warmth she cared to lounge in any longer. Besides, she needed to flee a dream. Of him. Calling her “little mouse” as he kissed the aching, pulsing parts of her body between her legs.Little mouse. An insult. Why did it make her weak-kneed?
Because everything about him made her weak-kneed. Weeks of separation should have dulled her fancy for him. Those weeks had heightened it, magnified it a thousandfold so that her body screamed for his touch, rejoiced when he barely brushed against her.
She blamed him. He was so very good at playing his part.
Pretending would drive her mad.
On tired legs she stood, her body wavering just a bit, staring at the empty corner.
