“Son, you have not spoken in over an hour.” Mother occupied the same dinner chair at the head of the table, and Mr. Oswald seemed to suffer no irritation at being treated as a guest in his own house. Indeed, he played along with encouraging smiles, as if allowing her one more chance to play hostess brought him pleasure.
“I am sorry.” Simon scooted his chair away from the table. He glanced at the children. “You are finished?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered in unison.
“They could not have possibly eaten everything. Not with all this chatter.” Mother attempted to sound disapproving, but softness lightened her voice. “Tell Grandmother. Did you clean your plates, dears?”
“Yes, of course they did.” Mr. Oswald provided the lie with a wink across the table. “An impressive feat, considering the tales of cheesecakes I overheard them speak of.”
“Pshaw. Cheesecakes indeed. Simon, Son, you should not allow the children to indulge in sweets throughout the day. It will make them more susceptible to diseases. Any good physician will tell you as much.”
“There will not be sweets in America.” His tone must have been too severe, because Mother let out a downhearted “Oh.”
Simon stood. “Children, I think your grandmother wishes to play some tunes with you before bed. You will help her to the pianoforte?”
“I do not need help.” She smiled in Simon’s direction. “And it would please me if my son would listen too. We only have one more evening together, after all.”
Every part of him wished to decline. He needed to escape. He needed the night air and horseflesh beneath him. He needed the sky, the stars, anything that would remind him of home.
Not her.
But he followed Mother into the music room. The children played on the floor and hummed along to the songs, Mr. Oswald drank half a decanter of port while he listened, and Simon fought memories of musicales and young voices and a girl who smelled of jasmine.
When it was over, Mother kissed his cheek. She clung to his neck, more tightly than she ever had in his life, and said into his ear, “I wish everything had turned out differently, my son.”
When she departed the music room with John and Mercy, Mr. Oswald approached with a second brim-full glass. “Here. You look as if you could use this.”
“No thank you.”
“I vow that I did not poison it.” Mr. Oswald chuckled. “Though I thought of it a time or two. Jealous rage, you know.”
Simon turned to leave.
“Just a minute.” Mr. Oswald downed the glass himself. “The ship will be leaving in the morning at eleven. You shall have your own private cabin, and although I have a meeting and shall not be there to see you off, Sir Walter has agreed to do the honors himself.”
Simon’s brows rose. Sir Walter was the last person he would have fathomed to send him off, considering that both of his office visits had been rejected and all of his letters unreturned.
Not that Simon blamed him.
“I admit to vast disappointment.” Mr. Oswald circled the glass with his finger. “Aside from my sister, I have never been more jubilant to see anyone depart England in my life.” When Simon attempted to turn again, Mr. Oswald stilled his arm. “One thing more.”
“What?”
“I finished going through your father’s study this morning. I stumbled upon a stack of letters I think might interest you. They are awaiting your perusal on the desk.”
Simon nodded, but instead of turning toward the study, he hurried outside and saddled a horse. He rode for too long. He remembered too much.
Better this way.He promised himself that was true.
He had no right to drag Georgina Whitmore into a wilderness. He had no right to subject her to more hardship. Had he not assured himself he would leave it in the hands of God?
He never imagined she would say no.
He had been unprepared.
He deserved that.
He deserved the knife in his chest, every painful twist—the tragic reality that he had touched her for the last time, felt her smile for the last time, heard her voice for the last time, known her sympathy for the last time.
