“Father?”
Perhaps the man had fallen asleep. Twelve years ago—indeed, the whole of Simon’s life—Father had been up before the dawn, seated in his study, and hard at work over his ledgers and correspondences.
The silence greeting Simon now raised alarm. Had things changed so very much in his absence?
Easing open the door, he leaned his head inside the study. The smell struck him with familiarity—paper, ink, leather, a faint trace of tobacco.
He entered and approached the massive desk. Everything was organized, pristine, and unchanged, much as he had expected.
Except the chair was empty.
“Oh—Master Fancourt.”
Simon turned to the doorway.
The butler entered, looking more himself with his combed hair and tight black suit. His smile was tentative. “Mrs. Fancourt wishes me to draw the curtains in here every morning, but if you should like to be alone—”
“Father always draws them himself.” Simon brought his knuckles down on the desk surface. “Where is he this morning, anyway?”
“Oh.” Mr. Wilkins discolored. “Oh—I, ahem, you see he…”
“He what?”
“Perhaps you should speak with Mrs. Fancourt, sir. I took the liberty of informing her already of your arrival.”
The thought of seeing Mother was considerably less formidable than a confrontation with Father. Simon smiled, nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”
“Will you take breakfast with her in the breakfast room?”
“Yes. I shall fetch my children—”
“Unnecessary, sir, as I have already sent up a temporary nanny to attend to them in the nursery. Besides, I imagine the madam shall like to see you alone.”
The pinched words sent another ripple of unease through Simon. He would have questioned Mr. Wilkins further, but the butler spun away in a hurry, shoes squeaking against the marble floors as he led Simon to the breakfast room.
“I shall fetch her at once, sir.” Parting the breakfast-room doors, the butler gestured Simon inside.
He sighed and swept into the small room. The walls were cream, the plaster ceiling was white and intricately patterned, and the round table in the center of the room sported empty blue-and-silver dishes.
Simon went to the sideboard, filled a plate with steaming kedgeree, an egg, and a buttered piece of toast. He returned to the table, grimacing at the contrast of his worn brown coat and trousers next to the lace tablecloth.
Father would detest the sight of his prodigal returned from the pigsty.
Perhaps Mother too.
He stirred at his food, took small bites, but had difficulty swallowing. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked and tocked, the sound grating.
Did they delay meeting with him to extend his torture? What the devil was taking so long?
He ripped the napkin from his neck, ready to search them out himself, when the doors opened again.
Simon jerked to his feet as she entered.
Thinner than he remembered, Mother stood in a simple white morning dress, her hair piled atop her head with traces of silver that had not been there twelve years ago. Her gaze remained steady, fixed on something across the room, but she did not look at him.
Hurt pricked. Was he so despicable that she could not bear the sight of him?
“Simon?”
