Matthew pouted as he stripped off his smallclothes and plopped himself into the bathwater. Anyone would think he was being subjected to the purest form of torture by his expression, and Claire suppressed a chuckle as she carefully poured a pitcher of water over his head, lathered her hands up, and scrubbed gently at his scalp until a froth of filmy bubbles covered his head.
“His lordship is sensitive to noise,” she confided. “Loud sounds can make his head ache—”
“Because of his accident?” Matthew inquired, slapping his palms on the surface of the water and pushing around the bubbles that had risen on it.
“His accident?” Claire asked idly as she rinsed his hair clean and reached for a cloth, working up a lather with the bar of soap.
“The one where he got the scar,” Matthew said. “It’s right here.” He traced a line over his right temple, back behind his ear, where his fingers met Claire’s as she scrubbed behind them with the cloth. “He let me feel it. It’s awful big.”
“Did he—” Claire hesitated, baffled by the depths of her concern. She shook it off and applied the cloth to Matthew’s back. But the question emerged anyway. “Did he say how he got it?”
“He got throwed from a horse,” he said. He snatched the cloth from her fingertips and whisked it over his arms and chest. “Will I ever have to ride a horse?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose not. I can’t imagine why you would.” Riding was a gentleman’s hobby, quite beyond her ability to afford.
“Good.” He gave a relieved sigh. “I don’t want to lose all my memories.”
Claire gave a little laugh, pouring water over his shoulders to wash away the film of bubbles. “Darling, why would you ever think such a thing?” She shook out a towel and held it open.
Matthew shrugged as he slapped the cloth over the side of the tub and climbed out, letting Claire wrap him up in the towel and blot his face with the corner. “That’s what happened to his lordship,” he said, blinking up at her through the wet strands of his hair.
Claire felt the corner of the towel slip through her fingers. Her breath hitched in her chest. “What? He—did he tell you that?”
He nodded. “He said it was called—” He paused, his lips pursing. “I’m not supposed to say it. He said people would think poorly. Why is that, Mama?”
“I suppose,” Claire said, faltering, as she swept Matthew from the bathing room back into the nursery, “I suppose some people fear what they don’t understand.”Shecertainly didn’t understand. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest, and she heard the rush of blood in her ears. “Did his lordship say when this accident occurred?” She had managed to keep her voice light and steady, no more than mildly interested.
“Seven years ago,” Matthew said as she drew his nightshirt over his head. “He was talking to that other toff—”
“Matthew,” she chided reflexively, even as her stiff fingers curled around the comb. Acting on force of habit alone, she guided Matthew to the rug stretched out before the fire, directing him to sit.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, casting a sheepish glance over his shoulder. “He said he couldn’t remember his wife. It’s awful sad, Mama.”
Catherine. He had called herCatherine, and it had wounded her to the depths of her soul to know that she had so easily been replaced, that he had given his love to another woman and she hadn’t merited even a faint glimmer of recognition from him. Butseven years…it was too coincidental to dismiss. Was it even remotely possible that it washerhe could not remember?
ButCatherine—the name had to have come from somewhere. He had said it with such conviction. A thousand thoughts raced through her brain, and she dragged the comb gently through her son’s hair—theirson’s hair—and struggled to piece them into some sort of order, some kind of sense. If only she could be certain…if only there were some way to fix what had been broken. But what could she do? Even if shewerethe woman he had lost—which, given that her name was certainly not Catherine, would no doubt be in dispute—she had no proof of their prior relationship. Aside from their son.
“Isn’t it sad, Mama?” Matthew shook out his neatly-combed hair and scrambled into her lap, throwing his arms about her neck as he pillowed his head on her shoulder.
“Very sad, darling,” she said, closing her arms around him. His soft breaths fanned over her throat, and she blinked back the sting of tears. They had all lost so much. Matthew might have had his father. Gabriel might have had his son. Once upon a time, they might have been happy.
But it was years too late for that now. Years and years too late.
Chapter Seventeen
The tailor arrived, with all due circumspection, and Matthew had been thrilled to find his lessons disrupted—though somewhat less thrilled when he had discovered what they had been disrupted for. He stood now, stripped to his small clothes, his expression mulish as the tailor took his measurements and jotted them down on a scrap of paper.
The boy’s mother wore a nearly identical expression, fidgeting just as much as her son did as she took in the vast quantities of cloth that had been carried up the stairs and draped over every available surface.
Gabriel’s presence had not been strictly necessary, but he had been leery of leaving an unknown shopkeeper alone with just the boy and his mother, concerned that the man might draw erroneous conclusions.
“My lord,” Claire said, twisting her fingers before her, pitching her voice low to avoid being overheard. Her gaze flitted across the fabrics, no doubt counting up the cost of them and finding them far beyond what she could ever hope to afford. “He needs only a few shirts—”
Gabriel did not bother to suppress the scathing sound that rose in his throat. “He needs far more than that,” he said. “He’ll need shirts and breeches, smalls, coats, riding clothes—”
“Riding clothes!” Claire interjected. “Why should he need such things?”
“Why should he not?” Gabriel inquired. “He’s of an age to learn. A pony can be found for him readily enough.” By the firm press of her lips, he assumed that she found this objectionable.
