It seemed almost too serendipitous, and the parallels were too obvious to ignore. Claire Hotchkiss—C H—and her living son. In them there might be a measure of absolution, of atonement…and perhaps even peace for his tortured spirit.
Chapter Twelve
Claire braced Matthew with one arm at his back as he shoved himself upright and reached one hand out for the cup of tea that Anne offered. She was aware of Gabriel’s presence at her back, that he stood awkwardly in the small room, uncertain of his place in it. She was certain it was an uncomfortable position for him—he had always been so self-assured, so certain of who he was and where he belonged.
When he had first appeared in the room she had had to restrain the impulse to lean over Matthew, shielding him from view, terrified that Gabriel might notice the resemblance between the two of them. But like most men, he remained oblivious. He couldn’t even recallher; he certainly would not be looking for similarities to himself in the face of their young son.
It seemed like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, really—to have both of them together in the same room. Once shehaddreamed of such an occurrence, that Gabriel would seek her out, tell her that everything had been a mistake, and whisk her off with him to live happily ever after. That dream had died hard, as dreams were wont to do. But as years had passed, she had had to face facts, after all.
“Mama,” Matthew said, his face tucked against her shoulder, “who isthat?” His sharp green eyes flitted to Gabriel standing in the corner, awkwardly holding his chipped teacup, still and silent.
Claire cleared her throat. “Matthew, this is the Marquess of Leighton,” she said. “You should address him as”—notPapa—“my lord.”
Matthew’s eyes rounded. “He’s the toff you work for!”
Gabriel choked on his tea, spluttering with surprised laughter.
“Matthew,” she chided sternly. “You must be respectful of his lordship. He brought me here in his own carriage. It was a very kind thing of him to do.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Can I play with Judith and Richard now, Mama?”
Claire hesitated. Though it seemed that he had recovered himself somewhat, these attacks often left him weak, and she was loath to let him out of bed to exert himself in a way that might provoke another of those wretched spasms.
Gabriel surprised her by saying, “Not until you’ve been seen by a doctor, lad.”
Matthew screwed up his face in furious protest, unwilling to accept the judgment of a man he did not know when he might appeal to his mother instead. “ButMama,” he wailed. “I’m better already.” He pursed his lips against a trailing cough, but it caught in his chest with an ominous rattle.
“His lordship is right,” Claire forced herself to say. “We must wait to see what the doctor says. It won’t be so very much longer.” Already he squirmed, his lower lip thrust out in a recalcitrant pout.
As if uncomfortable in the room once more, Gabriel headed once more for the door. “I will keep watch for the doctor,” he said. It was a thinly-veiled attempt to provide her a private moment with the child she saw far too infrequently, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
“I don’t like doctors,” Matthew complained. “They make me take tonics.”
Claire had thought the mustard plasters worse—the malodorous stench of the remedy had lingered long after the poultice had been washed off. “They’re to help you feel better,” she said. “Even if you don’t like them, it’s important that we listen to the doctor’s instructions and follow them to the letter.”
Anne popped her head into the room. “Claire, could I speak with you in the kitchen?”
“Of course.” She rose slowly to her feet and directed a firm look at Matthew. “You must stay in bed,” she said. “And perhaps, if you’ve been very good, I shall see if I can find you a treat. Perhaps some sweet buns.” It was a luxury she seldom allowed them, and she’d have to walk a good number of streets to find a bakery, but it would certainly lift Matthew’s spirits.
She got a sullen assent for her troubles, but at least no more complaints.
Anne pulled her into the farthest corner of the kitchen, pitching her voice to a whisper. “Claire, are you certain it was wise to bring him?”
Claire heaved a sigh. “I know, but what choice did I have? I would have had to find a hack—”
“ButLeighton. Really, Claire.” Anne pressed her palms to the counter top, her face drawn in worry. “You know how it is with that sort. You know how it is withLeighton. If he should ever find out that Matthew is his son—”
“He won’t.” Claire snatched an apron that lay draped over the back of a chair and drew it on, nudging Anne out of the way to begin kneading the half-finished bread dough that lay on the counter. “He won’t. I told you, he doesn’t even recall me. And it was years ago, besides.”
“But if heshould,” Anne insisted. “A lord can claim even a bastard child, you know. And if he took Matthew—well, there’s nothing you could do to prevent it. A court case would be quite beyond your means, and you could never expect it to be decided on your behalf over a lord’s.”
Claire suppressed a shiver. Of course she couldn’t expect such a thing—which was why she would never let it come to that. But Gabriel had been in his son’s presence for only a very few minutes, and there wasn’t much risk of him discovering anything she didn’t want him to.
From without the house, she heard the clatter of carriage wheels, and the rising murmur of voices. “My housekeeper’s child, doctor,” Gabriel was saying as he approached the door. “Matthew has a lung ailment.”
A moment later the door opened, and Gabriel led another gentleman inside, a bespectacled gentleman of some thirty years, who wore his blond hair slicked back away from his face. He carried with him a leather traveling case that seemed quite heavy, and there was a slight clinking sound from it, as of various implements of his trade bumping up against one another.
“Mrs. Hotchkiss,” Gabriel said, “this is Dr. Barnes.”
