He’d offered nothing to Claire when she had left, not even his well-wishes for Anne’s safe delivery from childbirth. As far as Claire knew, he neither knew nor cared that he had grandchildren.
Which was not to say that he would have cared for Matthew in any case. His zealotry had been all-consuming; she didn’t doubt but that he would have condemned her for bearing a child out of wedlock. He would have viewed his grandson as an abomination, a non-person—a child who should never have existed. Claire would never have let her father’s scorn fall upon her beloved son.
Anne swiped her hand across her brow and laid a cloth over the ball of dough resting on the countertop. “He’s a lord,” she said softly. “What interest would he take in a child? He’s pleased enough to offer his support to stroke his own ego or appease his conscience, but once Matthew is settled, he’ll forget all about him, surely.” She punctuated the decisive statement with a brisk nod.
Claire wished she had a fraction of Anne’s confidence.
∞∞∞
Everything Matthew owned amounted to a small sack of clothing and a paltry few well-worn toys. Gabriel supposed something would have to be done about that as well, though he hadn’t the first idea of where to go or whose assistance to solicit in the service of supplying everything a young boy would need.
Matthew had said a remarkably cheerful goodbye to his cousins, whom Claire had promised to use her half days to facilitate meeting. The boy’s aunt had been strangely reserved, though she had hugged her nephew tightly to her bosom as she whispered her own goodbyes. Claire had chosen wisely in settling her son with her sister, who seemed genuinely fond of the lad.
Presently the boy lay half across the seat of the carriage, his head pillowed on Claire’s lap. She’d been right after all; despite his demands to play with his cousins, the attack he’d suffered had exhausted him, and he’d fallen straight to sleep almost as soon as the carriage had set into motion. His breaths sighed out, mostly even, and the slight rasp had lessened somewhat.
Claire sat silently, smoothing her fingers across the lad’s brow, stroking his shaggy hair away from his face. It had likely been many years since she’d spent so much time in her son’s company. Probably she had not expected to have him in her custody for many more—if ever.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea as to where to seek out a suitable nanny or governess,” Gabriel remarked idly, pitching his voice low to avoid disturbing the sleeping child.
Claire gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “Most take out an advertisement,” she said, “unless they can prevail upon recommendations from friends or family.”
An advertisement would hardly do; he’d chosen an unusual course, and if London society saw such a notice put in the paper, they would assume, erroneously, that he had taken in his natural child. Though he didn’t truly care what was said of him, Claire’s reputation could suffer for it. A woman in her position could not afford to be thought of as a woman of light morals.
He thought of Westwood, and of Westwood’s sister, the Duchess of Rushton—she had a daughter some years younger than Matthew, but she was a meddler, and if he prevailed upon Westwood, she could probably be induced to provide her assistance.
Of course, that would mean suffering Westwood’s insufferable presence yet again. But he supposed he could bear it, if the result was finding a decent recommendation.
“I’ll consult with some acquaintances and get their suggestions,” he said, and found his gaze straying once again to the sleeping boy. “He must take after his father,” he said.
Claire’s fingers froze on the boy’s brow, and she swallowed audibly. But at last she said, “Yes. I suppose he does.”
“Has he not been involved in your son’s life?” Gabriel asked, shamelessly prying for information. “He owes support to his child—”
“He’s dead.” The words emerged toneless and clipped, as if she had forced them from her throat, and Gabriel couldn’t determine what sort of emotion had lurked behind them.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.” It seemed such an insufficient thing to say, such a tepid response.
She averted her gaze again, turning to stare sightlessly out the window, and Gabriel was left to wonder—did she care for the man still? Her eyes were distant, but there was no trace of tears in them. Was the emptiness in her voice born of resentment, or was she simply in the grip of a hurt that went too deep for tears?
It was none of his business, of course. He knew it. But still that unassuaged curiosity lingered—what kind of man had her husband been? Certainly at some point she must have loved him. Perhaps she did still.
Strangely, the thought of her pining for her deceased husband did not sit comfortably.
Chapter Fourteen
To say that Mr. Bradshaw was surprised when they returned at last with a small child in tow was something of an understatement. Though the butler did a masterful job of concealing his shock when Claire strode through the door with Matthew sleeping in her arms, he cleared his throat with a sort of vigor that would ordinarily suggest that the maids had not done a thorough enough job with the dusting.
Gabriel had taken charge, in what Claire supposed had been an attempt to diffuse the inherent awkwardness of the situation.
“Bradshaw,” he said, “Mrs. Hotchkiss’ son will be residing here henceforth. We will need to have the nursery made up for him.”
“The nursery?” Mr. Bradshaw faltered. “Sir, there’s no furniture for it.”
“No, I suppose there isn’t,” Gabriel said. “Well, there’s no help for it, then—send a footman out for some. And whatever else a boy of his years might require.” His gaze traveled over Matthew, whose head was pillowed on Claire’s shoulder. “Best send a couple of footmen,” he mused. “He’ll need clothing, toys, books—”
“My lord,” Claire interrupted, an uncomfortable flush rising in her cheeks. “There’s no need for such extravagance. Matthew can stay with me, and he has got toys of his own.”
“Yes, and I have seen the state of them,” Gabriel said, and his tone was hardly complimentary. “Which is why he will have new ones.”
