He smoothed her curl down, ignoring her swatting hand. “Too true, Mags. But there’s always room for hunting trophies.”
Raph snorted as he tossed firewood into the flames, making them roar higher. “As if you felled that bear whose head decorates your study wall.”
Tobias grinned. “Perhaps not, but I do keep him company in his afterlife. Dear Sebastian would be bored senseless without me. And I without him, truthfully. Only Mags and Merry to keep me company.” His lips turned down.
Maggie swatted his hand again, and this time, he let her, only to trail his knuckles down her neck, tweak her earlobe.
“I agree about the dower house,” Cordelia said. “It’s lovely.” Clara had taken them on a tour of the house yesterday after they’d arrived. “And so very close to completion.”
“Do you still plan to rent it?” Theo asked. He sat next to his wife on a couch, scribbling who knew what nonsense in an open sketchbook. Likely some farcical figure passing gas or the exaggerated profile of a peer or politician whose nose Theo had drawn much bigger than it actually was. No matter what he drew, the printshops would pay well for it. His drawings had increased in value since the one he’d published featuring the Earl of Pentshire earlier that year.
“Yes, we do,” Raph said, leaning against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. “But… another good harvest this year.” A small smile that softened as it landed on his wife. Atlas expected his brother to add something else, but the man seemed to get lost in his gazing.
“How much longer?” Amelia asked. “Until it’s done?” She and Drew sat on the edges of the circle in matching chairs, theirwrists draped over the chair arms, their fingers playing softly in a tangle between them. “Until it is complete?”
Beside him, Clara inhaled, exhaled, much heavier than before, enough to draw his attention. Her face was pale and turned down to where she’d folded her hands in her lap.
“Another month perhaps,” Atlas answered when she did not. He settled his hand atop hers, but she did not look up. “Could be sooner.” She flinched.
“And what then?” Drew drawled. “You’ve spent the last year or so fixing the place up, and Raph can now hire more staff, so you do not have to do as much about the estate. What will you do when your work is done?” Naturally, Drew would fire the most important question right into the bull’s-eye with little thought to how the bull’s-eye might feel.
Atlas cleared his throat. Here was where he should tell them his plans. “I’ll find something to keep me busy.” Or not.
“You’ve still not earned your inheritance,” his mother said. “I’m waiting for a song.”
Clara unwound her arm from Atlas’s. “Excuse me. I need a moment.”
Atlas reached for her, but she sailed out of his grasp. “I’ll go with?—”
“No. Please stay as you are. I… I’ll…” She finished with a smile instead of an explanation and swept out of the room.
No one seemed to notice anything amiss. They continued their conversation, their laughing, as if Clara’s spirit had not just drained away entirely.
She’d told him to stay.
He stood and followed her out of the room. No one in the hallway. She must have run once beyond the doorway. But where to? He tried the drawing room across the hall where the privacy screen and chamber pot lived. Empty. He tried the butler’s pantry next. Perhaps she’d sought out Mr. Smith tobring more tea. Empty as well, except for a wide-eyed Mr. Smith wanting to know if he could help.
“No,” Atlas said. “Go home to your wife and babe. We can manage without you today.” Atlas left before the butler could answer, and he found his way upstairs. His bedchamber door was closed, but as he reached for the doorknob, a note pinged through the air, stopping him. She was in there, fussing with his pianoforte. But why?
He opened the door, stepped through, and closed it softly behind him. “Clara? Are you unwell?” Perhaps she’d had too much of the wine. No answer as he made his way toward the curtain that divided the room. “I know you’re here. I heard the pianoforte.”
An exhale, ragged and raw.
He peeked around the curtain. She sat on the pianoforte bench, her face pale, her gaze hazy and locked onto some point behind him. He crept closer. Something in her posture told him to exercise caution.
“Can I help?” he asked.
She shook her head. Then nodded. Then sighed. “I did not want to burden you today. I’ve been trying not to worry. I want Alfie to enjoy today with no fear. And I thought we had time. But the conversation downstairs reminded me that time is slowly ticking away, has been since I arrived. And now this…”
What had they been discussing downstairs? He tried to remember the conversation. Gifts and marriage and art and the dower house. Nothing to upset her.
He sat beside her, took her hands in his. “Tell me. Let me fix it.”
“You cannot. It’s”—her mouth hung open, forming a softoof uncertainty—“Lord Tefler. Yesterday, Cordelia told me he’d been to the art school. Looking for me.” When she pulled her hands from his hold, he realized he’d been squeezing too hard.She ran her fingers through his knuckles, soothing him. When he should be soothing her. “The conversation below. About the dower house. You’re leaving when it’s done, but… Atlas, I’m scared for you to leave. What if Lord Tefler appears demanding Alfie? I do not wish to keep you from pursuing your dreams, from doing what you need to do. If it is what is best for you, but—” She pressed the heel of her hand hard into her eye. “I am scared. I know, with my intellect, I am certain your family will defend me, defend Alfie. But… they are not you. What will Lord Tefler think when he sees my husband has gone, that I am alone, that?—”
“I’ll protect you. You know that.”
She bit her lip. “I’ve been thinking since yesterday of ways I can keep you here, of how I can convince you to stay, but you deserve happiness, and?—”
